




























































































































































































































































































































































































































































“ The memory of those thirteen pink tails has haunted r 

























































“ Sing, Tessa ; sing ! ” cried Tommo, twanging away with all his might. — Page 47, 
































f 


Aunt Jo’s 


Scrap-Bag. 


MY BOYS, Etc. 


/ 

. By LOUISA M. ALCOTT, 

\tmiOK OF “LITTLE women," “an old-fashioned girl,” “little men./ 

“hospital sketches." 



BOSTON: 

LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY. 

1901 . 

I!’* >»><■*> ' J » » , » > , > > > . > » 

* > e a a > » , j \ *> i , > » 

» >>>■>» a » a > > > , 3 >ji d 

1 »»j > '. > * a i ) 

} *>j}» a j a j -» j f > , ] >»> > 


» . > 




’ i » > , > 





Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by 

LOUISA M. ALCOTT, 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington 

v 0 


University Press : John W 
Cambridge. 

* t.C« C c t « C < c c 

fe e * <* <.<.*< 1 

1 C t < if | * i C * 

< c t ttC Cl c ^ c 

C t It «< < 4 C «- t < <. v 


iLSON & Son, 


( S ( 1 « t.w 

4*1 * 

t * < l < * 

t C < f 

l C C C t l 


c t 

c 
c < 





PREFACE. 


- 4 - 

o 

Sr 




<6 

yO - 
■=$ <st> 


> 


S grandmothers rummage their piece-bags 
and bundles in search of gay odds and 
ends to make gifts with which to fill the little 
stockings that hang all in a row on Christmas 
Eve, so I have gathered together some stories, 
old and new, to amuse the large family that has 
so rapidly and beautifully grown up about me. 

I hope that when they promenade in night¬ 
caps and gowns to rifle the plump stockings, 
the little “ dears ” will utter an “ Oh! ” of pleas¬ 
ure, and give a prance of satisfaction, as they 
pull out this small gift from Aunt Jo’s scrap- 
bag. 


Christmas Holidays, 
1871-72. 




CONTENTS 


PAGE 

My Boys. 1 

Tessa’s Surprises.. 

Buzz.58 

The Children’s Joke.67 

Dandelion.91 

Madam Cluck, and her Family.100 

A Curious Call. Ill 

Tilly’s Christmas . . *. 123 

My Little Gentleman.134 

Back Windows.. * 148 

Little Marie of Lehon.158 

My May-day among Curious Birds and Beasts 176 

Our Little Newsboy.186 

Patty’s Patchwork.193 
















AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


MY BOYS. 

1 REELING that I have been unusually fortunate 
■*“ in my knowledge of a choice and pleasing 
variety of this least appreciated portion of the human 
race, I have a fancy to record some of my experi¬ 
ences, hoping that it may awaken an interest in 
other minds, and cause other people to cultivate the 
delightful, but too often neglected boys, who now 
run to waste, so to speak. 

I have often wondered what they thought of the 
peculiar treatment they receive, even at the hands 
of their nearest friends. While they are rosy, roly- 
poly little fellows they are petted and praised, 
adorned and adored, till it is a miracle that they are 
not utterly ruined. But the moment they outgrow 
their babyhood their trials begin, and they are re- 


2 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


garded as nuisances till they are twenty-one, when 
tiiey are again received into favor. 

Yet that very time of neglect is the period when 
they most need all manner of helps, and ought to have 
them. I like hoys and oysters raw; so, though good 
manners are always pleasing, I don’t mind the rough 
outside burr which repels most people, and perhaps 
that is the reason why the burrs open and let me see 
the soft lining and taste the sweet nut hidden inside. 

My first well-beloved boy was a certain Frank, to 
whom I clung at the age of seven with a devotion 
which I fear he did not appreciate. There were six 
girls in the house, but I would have nothing to say 
to them, preferring to tag after Frank, and perfectly 
happy when he allowed me to play with him. I 
regret to say that the small youth was something 
of a tyrant, and one of his favorite amusements was 
trying to make me cry by slapping my hands with 
books, hooj^sticks, shoes, any thing that came along 
capable of giving a good stinging blow. I believe I 
endured these marks of friendship with the fortitude 
of a young Indian, and felt fully repaid for a blistered 


MY BOYS. 


3 


palm by hearing Frank tell the other boys “ She’s a 
brave little thing, and you can’t make her cry.” 

My chief joy was in romping with him in the long 
galleries of a piano manufactory behind our house. 
What bliss it was to mount one of the cars on which 
the workmen rolled heavy loads from room to room, 
and to go thundering down the inclined planes, re¬ 
gardless of the crash that usually awaited us at the 
bottom! If I could have played foot-ball on the 
Common with my Frank and Billy Babcock, life 
could have offered me no greater joy at that period. 
As the prejudices of society forbid this sport, I 
revenged myself by driving hoop all around the mall 
without stopping, which the boys could not do. 

I can remember certain happy evenings, when wo. 
snuggled in sofa corners and planned tricks and ate 
stolen goodies, and sometimes Frank would put his 
curly head in my lap and let me stroke it when he 
was tired. What the girls did I don’t recollect; 
their domestic plays were not to my taste, and the 
only figure that stands out from the dimness of the 
past is that jolly boy with a twinkling eye. This 


4 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


memory would be quite radiant but for one sad 
thing, — a deed that cut me to the soul then, and 
which I have never quite forgiven in all these years. 

On one occasion I did something very naughty, 
and when called up for judgment fled to the dining¬ 
room, locked the door, and from my stronghold 
defied the whole world. I could have made my own 
terms, for it was near dinner-time and the family 
must eat; but, alas, for the treachery of the human 
heart! Frank betrayed me. He climbed in at the 
window, unlocked the door, and delivered me up to 
the foe. Nay, he even defended the base act, and 
helped bear the struggling culprit to imprisonment. 
That nearly broke my heart, for I believed he would 
stand by me as staunchly as I always stood by him. 
It was a sad blow, and I couldn’t love or trust him 
any more. Peanuts and candy, ginger-snaps and 
car-rides were unavailing; even foot-ball could not 
reunite the broken friendship, and to this day I 
recollect the pang that entered my. little heart when 
I lost my faith in the loyalty of my first boy. 

The second attachment was of quite a different 


MY BOYS. 


5 


sort, and had a happier ending. At the mature age 
of ten, I left home for my first visit to a family of gay 
and kindly people in — well, why not say right 
out ? — Providence. There were no children, and at 
first I did not mind this, as every one petted me, 
especially one of the young men named Christopher. 
So kind and patient, yet so merry was this good 
Christy that I took him for my private and partic¬ 
ular boy, and loved him dearly, for he got me out 
of innumerable scrapes, and never was tired of 
amusing the restless little girl who kept the family 
in a fever of anxiety by her pranks. lie never 
laughed at her mishaps and mistakes, never played 
tricks upon her like a certain William who composed 
the most trying nicknames, and wickedly goaded the 
wild visitor into all manner of naughtiness. Christy 
stood up for her through every thing; let her ride 
the cows, feed the pigs, bang on the piano, and race 
all over the spice mill, feasting on cinnamon and 
cloves; brought her down from housetops and fished 
her out of brooks; never scolded, and never seemed 
tired of the troublesome friendship of little Tor¬ 
ment. 


6 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


In a week I had exhausted every amusement and 
was desperately homesick. It has always been my 
opinion that I should have been speedily restored 
to the bosom of my family but for Christy, and but 
for him I should assuredly have ran away before 
the second week was out. He kept me, and in the 
hour of my disgrace stood by me like a man and 
a brother. 

One afternoon, inspired by a spirit of benevolence, 
enthusiastic but short-sighted, I collected several 
poor children in the barn and regaled them on cake 
and figs, helping myself freely to the treasures of 
the pantry without asking leave, meaning to explain 
afterward. Being discovered before the supplies 
were entirely exhausted, the patience of the long- 
suffering matron gave out, and I was ordered up to 
the garret to reflect upon my sins, and the pleasing 
prospect of being sent home with the character of 
the worst child ever known. 

My sufferings were deep as I sat upon a fuzzy 
little trunk all alone in the dull garret, thinking how 
hard it was to do right, and wondering why I was 


MY BOYS. 


7 


scolded for feeding the poor when we were expressly 
bidden to do so. I felt myself an outcast, and be¬ 
wailed the disgrace I had brought upon my family. 
Nobody could possibly love such a bad child; and 
if the mice were to come and eat me then and there, 
— a la Bishop Hatto, — it would only be a relief to 
my friends. At this dark moment I heard Christy 
say below, “ She meant it kindly, so I wouldn’t 
mind, Fanny;” and then up came my boy full of 
sympathy and comfort. Seeing the tragic expression 
of my face, he said not a word, but, sitting down in 
an old chair, took me on his knee and held me close 
and quietly, letting the action speak for itself. It 
did most eloquently; for the kind arm seemed to 
take me back from that dreadful exile, and the 
friendly face to assure me without words that I had 
not sinned beyond forgiveness. 

I had not shed a tear before, but now I cried 
tempestuously, and clung to him like a shipwrecked 
little mariner in a storm. Neither spoke, but he 
held me fast and let me cry myself to sleep; for, 
when the shower was over, a pensive peace fell upon 


8 


AUNT JO'S SCRAP-BAG. 


me, and the dim old garret seemed not a prison, but 
a haven of refuge, since my boy came to share it 
with me. How long I slept I don’t know, but it 
must have been an hour, at least; yet my good 
Christy never stirred, only waited patiently till I 
woke up in the twilight and was not afraid because 
he was there. He took me down as meek as a 
mouse, and kept me by him all that trying evening, 
screening me from jokes, rebukes, and sober looks; 
and when I went to bed he came up to kiss me, and 
to assure me that this awful circumstance should 
not be reported at home. This took a load off my 
heart, and I remember fervently thanking him, and 
telling him I never would forget it. 

I never have, though he died long ago, and others 
have probably forgotten all about the naughty prank. 
I often longed to ask him how he knew the surest 
way to win a child’s heart by the patience, sympa¬ 
thy, and tender little acts that have kept his memory 
green for nearly thirty years. 

Cy was a comrade after my own heart, and for a 
summer or two we kept the neighborhood in a fer- 


MY BOYS. 


9 


ment by our adventures and hair-breadth escapes. 
I think I never knew a boy so full of mischief, and 
my opportunities of judging have been manifold. 
He did not get into scrapes himself, but possessed a 
splendid talent for deluding others into them, and 
then morally remarking, “ There, I told you so! ” 
His way of saying “You dars’nt do this or that,” 
was like fire to powder; and why I still live in the 
possession of all my limbs and senses is a miracle to 
those who know my youthful friendship with Cy. 
It was he who incited me to jump off of the highest 
beam in the barn to be borne home on a board with 
a pair of sprained ankles. It was he who dared me 
to rub my eyes with red peppers, and then sympa- 
thizingly led me home blind and roaring with pain. 
It was he who solemnly assured me that all the little 
pigs would die in agony if their tails were not cut 
off, and won me to hold thirteen little squealers 
while the operation was performed. Those thirteen 
innocent pink tails haunt me yet, and the memory 
of that deed has given me a truly Jewish aversion 
to pork. 


10 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


I did not know him long, but he was a kindred 
soul, and must have a place in my list of boys. He 
is a big, brown man now, and having done bis part 
in the war, is at work on his farm. We meet some¬ 
times, and though we try to be dignified and proper, 
it is quite impossible; there is a sly twinkle in Cy’s 
eye that upsets my gravity, and we always burst out 
laughing at the memory of our early frolics. 

My Augustus! oh, my Augustus! my first little 
lover, and the most romantic of my boys. At 
fifteen I met this charming youth, and thought I had 
found my fate. It was at a spelling school in a little 
country town where I, as a stranger and visitor from 
the city, was an object of interest. Painfully con¬ 
scious of this fact, I sat in a corner trying to look 
easy and elegant, with a large red bow under my 
chin, and a carnelian ring in full view. Among the 
boys and girls who frolicked about me, I saw one 
lad of seventeen with “ large blue eyes, a noble 
brow, and a beautiful straight nose,” as I described 
him in a letter to my sister. This attractive youth 
had a certain air of refinement and ease of manner 



MY BOYS. 


11 


that the others lacked; and when I found he was the 
minister’s son, I felt that I might admire him without 
loss of dignity. “ Imagine my sensations,” as Miss 
Burney’s Evelina says, when this boy came and talked 
to me, a little bashfully at first, but soon quite freely, 
and invited me to a huckleberry party next day. I 
had observed that he was one of the best spellers. 
I also observed that his language was quite elegant; 
he even quoted Byron, and rolled his eyes in a most 
engaging manner, not to mention that he asked who 
gave me my ring, and said he depended on escorting 
me to the berry pasture. 

Dear me, how interesting it was! and when I found 
myself, next day, sitting under a tree in the sunny 
field (full of boys and girls, all more or less lover¬ 
ing), with the amiable Augustus at my feet, gallantly 
supplying me with bushes to strip while we talked 
about books and poetry, I really felt as if I had got 
into a novel, and enjoyed it immensely. I believe a 
dim idea that Gus was sentimental hovered in my 
mind, but I would not encourage it, though I laughed 
in my sleeve when he was spouting Latin for my 



12 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


benefit, and was uncertain whether to box his ears 
or simper later in the day, when he languished over 
the gate, and said he thought chestnut hair the love¬ 
liest in the world. 

Poor, dear boy! how innocent and soft-hearted and 
full of splendid dreams he was, and what deliciously 
romantic times w T e had floating on the pond, while 
the frogs sung to his accordion, as he tried to say 
unutterable things with his honest blue eyes. It 
makes me shiver now to think of the mosquitoes 
and the damp; but it w T as Pauline and Claude Mel- 
notte then, and when I went home we promised to 
be true to one another, and write every week during 
the year he was away at school. 

We parted,— not in tears by any means ; that sort 
of nonsense comes later, when the romance is less 
childish,—but quite jolly and comfortable, and I 
hastened to pour forth the thrilling tale to my faith¬ 
ful sister, who approved of the match, being a per¬ 
fect “ mush of sentiment ” herself. 

I fear it w r as not a very ardent flame, however, for 
Gus did not write every week, and I did not care a 


MY BOYS. 


13 


bit; nevertheless, I kept his picture and gave it a 
sentimental sigh when I happened to think of it, 
while he sent messages now and then, and devoted 
himself to his studies like an ambitious boy as he 
was. I hardly expected to see him again, but soon 
after the year was out, to my great surprise he 
called. I was so fluttered by the appearance of his 
card that I rather lost my head, and did such a silly 
thing that it makes me laugh even now. He liked 
chestnut hair, and, pulling out my combs, I rushed 
down, theatrically dishevelled, hoping to im press my 
lover with my ardor and my charms. 

I expected to find little Gus; but, to my great con¬ 
fusion, a tall being with a beaver in his hand rose to 
meet me, looking so big and handsome and generally 
imposing, that I could not recover myself for several 
minutes, and mentally wailed for my combs, feeling 
like an untidy simpleton. 

I don’t know whether he thought me a little 
cracked or not, but he was very friendly and pleas¬ 
ant, and told me his plans, and hoped I would make 
another visit, and smoothed his beaver, and let me 


14 


AUNT JO'S SCRAP-BAG. 


see his tail-coat, and behaved himself like a dear, 
conceited, clever boy. He did not allude to our 
love-passages, being shy, and I blessed him for it; 
for really, I don’t know what rash thing I might have 
done under the exciting circumstances. Just as he 
was going, however, he forgot his cherished hat for 
a minute, put out both hands, and said heartily, with 
his old boyish laugh, — 

“ Now you will come, and we’ll go boating and 
berrying, and all the rest of it again, won’t we ? ” 

The blue eyes were full of fun and feeling, too, I 
fancied, as I blushingly retired behind my locks and 
gave the promise. But I never went, and never saw 
my little lover any more, for in a few weeks he was 
dead of a fever, brought on by too much study, — 
and so ended the sad history of my fourth boy. 

After this, for many years, I was a boyless being; 
but was so busy I did not feel my destitute condi¬ 
tion till I went to the hospital during the war, 
and found my little sergeant. His story has been 
told elsewhere, but the sequel to it is a pleasant one, 
for Baby B. still writes to me now and then, asks 


MY BOYS. 


15 


advice about his future, and gladdens me with good 
news of his success as a business man in Kansas. 

As if to atone for the former dearth, a sudden 
shower of most superior boys fell upon me, after I 
recovered from my campaign. Some of the very 
best sort it was my fortune to know and like, — real 
gentlemen, yet boys still, — and jolly times they had, 
stirring uj) the quiet old town with their energetic 
society. 

There was W., a stout, amiable youth, who would 
stand in the middle of a strawberry patch, with his 
hands in his pockets, and let us feed him luxuri¬ 
ously. B., a delightful scapegrace, who came once 
a week to confess his sins, beat his breast in despair, 
vow awful vows of repentance, and then cheer¬ 
fully depart, to break every one of them in the next 
twenty-four hours. S. the gentle-hearted giant; 
J. the dandy; sober, sensible B.; and E., the young 
knight without reproach or fear. 

But my especial boy of the batch was A., — proud 
and cold and shy to other people, sad and serious 
sometimes when his good heart and tender com 


16 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


science showed him his short-comings, hut so grate¬ 
ful for sympathy and a kind word. 

I could not get at him as easily as I could the 
other lads, but, thanks to Dickens, I found him out 
at last. 

We played Dolphus and Sophy Tetterby in the 
“ Haunted Man,” at one of the school festivals; and 
during the rehearsals I discovered that my Dolphus 
was — permit the expression, oh, well-bred readers! 
— a trump. What fun we had, to be sure, acting 
the droll and pathetic scenes together, with a swarm 
of little Tetterbys skirmishing about us! From that 
time he has been my Dolphus and I his Sophy, and 
my yellow-haired laddie don’t forget me, though he 
has a younger Sophy now, and some small Tetter¬ 
bys of his own. He writes just the same affectionate 
letters as he used to do, though I, less faithful, am 
too busy to answer them. 

But the best and dearest of all my flock was 
my Polish boy, Ladislas Wisniewski, — two hic¬ 
coughs and a sneeze will give you the name per¬ 
fectly. Six years ago, as I went down to my early 


MY BOYS. 


IT 


breakfast at our Pension in Vevey, I saw that a 
stranger had arrived. He was a tall youth, of 
eighteen or twenty, with a thin, intelligent face, and 
the charmingly polite manners of a foreigner. As 
the other boarders came in, one by one, they left the 
door open, and a draught of cold autumn air blew in 
from the stone corridor, making the new comer 
cough, shiver, and cast wistful glances toward the 
warm corner by the stove. My place was there, 
and the heat often oppressed me, so I was glad of an 
opportunity to move. 

A word to Madame Yodoz effected the change; 
and at dinner I was rewarded by a grateful smile 
from the poor fellow, as he nestled into his warm 
seat, after a pause of surprise and a flush of pleasure 
at the small kindness from a stranger. We were 
too far apart to talk much, but, as he filled his glass, 
the Pole bowed to me, and said low in French, — 

“ I drink the good health to Mademoiselle.” 

I returned the wish, but he shook his head with a 
sudden shadow on his face, as if the words meant 
more than mere compliment to him. 

2 


18 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


“ That boy is sick and needs care. I must see to 
him,” said I to myself, as I met him in the afternoon, 
and observed the military look of his blue and white 
suit, as he touched his cap and smiled pleasantly. I 
have a weakness for brave boys in blue, and having 
discovered that he had been in the late Polish Revo¬ 
lution, my heart warmed to him at once. 

That evening he came to me in the salon, and 
expressed his thanks in the prettiest broken English 
I ever heard. So simple, frank, and grateful was he 
that a few words of interest won his little story from 
him, and in half an hour we were friends. With 
his fellow-students he had fought through the last 
outbreak, had suffered imprisonment and hardship 
rather than submit, had lost many friends, his for¬ 
tune and his health, and at twenty, lonely, poor, 
and ill, was trying bravely to cure the malady which 
seemed fatal. 

“ If I recover myself of this affair in the chest, 
reach the music to acquire my bread in this so 
hospitable country. At Paris, my friends, all two, 
find a refuge, and I go to them in spring if I die 


MY BOYS. 


19 


not here. Yes, it is solitary, and my memories are 
not gay, but I have my work, and the good God 
remains always to me, so I content myself with 
much hope, and I wait.” 

Such genuine piety and courage increased my 
respect and regard immensely, and a few minutes 
later he added to both by one of the little acts that 
show character better than words. 

He told me about the massacre, when five hundred 
Poles were shot down by Cossacks in the market¬ 
place, merely because they sung their national hymn. 

“ Play me that forbidden air,” I said, wishing to 
judge of his skill, for I had heard him practising 
softly in the afternoon. 

He rose willingly, then glanced about the room 
and gave a little shrug which made me ask what he 
wanted. 

“ I look to see if the Baron is here. He is 
Russian, and to him my national air will not be 
pleasing.” 

“ Then play it. He dare not forbid it here, and I 
should rather enjoy that little insult to your bitter 



20 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


enemy,” said I, feeling very indignant with every 
thing Russian just then. 

“ Ah, mademoiselle, it is true we are enemies, hut 
we are also gentlemen,” returned the boy, proving 
that he at least was one. 

I thanked him for his lesson in politeness, and as 
the Baron was not there he played the beautiful 
hymn, singing it enthusiastically in spite of the 
danger to his weak lungs. A true musician evi¬ 
dently, for, as he sung his pale face glowed, his eyes 
shone, and his lost vigor seemed restored to him. 

From that evening we were fast friends; for the 
memory of certain dear lads at home made my 
heart open to this lonely boy, who gave me in 
return the most grateful affection and service. He 
begged me to call him “ Varjo,” as his mother did. 
He constituted himself my escort, errand-boy, 
French teacher, and private musician, making those 
weeks infinitely pleasant by his winning ways, his 
charming little confidences, and faithful friendship. 

We had much fun over our lessons, for I helped 
him about his English. With a great interest in 


MY BOYS. 


21 


free America, and an intense longing to hear about 
our war, the barrier of an unknown tongue did not 
long stand between us. Beginning with my bad 
French and his broken English, we got on capitally; 
but he outdid me entirely, making astonishing prog¬ 
ress, though he often slapped his forehead with the 
despairing exclamation, — 

“ I am imbecile ! I never can will shall to have 
learn this beast of English ! ” 

But he did, and in a month had added a new 
language to the five he already possessed. 

His music was the delight of the house; and he 
often gave us little concerts with the help of Madam 
Teiblin, a German St. Cecelia, with a cropped head 
and a gentlemanly sack, cravat, and collar. Both 
were enthusiasts, and the longer they played the 
more inspired they got. The piano vibrated, the 
stools creaked, the candles danced in their sockets, 
and every one sat mute while the four white hands 
chased one another up and down the keys, and the 
two fine faces beamed with such ecstacy that we 
almost expected to see instrument and performers 
disappear in a musical whirlwind. 


22 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


Lake Leman will never seem so lovely again as 
when Laddie and I roamed about its shores, floated 
on its bosom, or laid splendid plans for the future in 
the sunny garden of the old chateau. I tried it 
again last year, but the charm was gone, for I missed 
my boy with his fun, his music, and the frank, fresh 
affection he gave his “ little mamma,” as he insisted 
on calling the lofty spinster who loved him like half 
a dozen grandmothers rolled into one. 

December roses blossomed in the gardens then, 
and Laddie never failed to have a posy ready 
for me at dinner. Few evenings passed without 
“ confidences ” in my comer of the salon, and I still 
have a pile of merry little notes which I used to find 
tucked under my door. He called them chapters of 
a great history we were to write together, and 
being a “polisson ” he illustrated it with droll pic¬ 
tures, and a funny mixture of French and English 
romance. 

It was very pleasant, but like all pleasant things 
in this world of change it soon came to an end. 
When I left for Italy we jokingly agreed to meet in 


MY BOYS. 


23 


Paris the next May, but neither really felt that we 
should ever meet again, for Laddie hardly expected 
to outlive the winter, and I felt sure I should soon 
be forgotten. As he kissed my hand there were 
tears in my boy’s eyes, and a choke in the voice that 
tried to say cheerfully, — 

“ Bon voyage , dear and good little mamma. I do 
not say adieu, but au revoir .” 

Then the carriage rolled away, the wistful face 
vanished, and nothing remained to me but the 
memory of Laddie, and a little stain on my glove 
where a drop had fallen. 

As I drew near Paris six months later, and found 
myself wishing that I might meet Varjo in the great, 
gay city, and wondering if there was any chance of 
my doing it, I never dreamed of seeing him so soon; 
but, as I made my way among the crowd of passen¬ 
gers that poured through the station, feeling tired, 
bewildered, and homesick, I suddenly saw a blue 
and white cap wave wildly in the air, then Laddie’s 
beaming face appeared, and Laddie’s eager hands 
grasped mine so cordially that I began to laugh at 


24 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


once, and felt that Paris was almost as good as 
home. 

“ Ah, ha! behold the little mamma, who did not 
thought to see again her bad son! Yes, I am 
greatly glad that I make the fine surprise for you as 
you come all weary to this place of noise. Give to 
me the billets, for I am still mademoiselle’s servant 
and go to find the coffers.” 

He got my trunks, put me into a carriage, and as 
we rolled merrily away I asked how he chanced to 
meet me so unexpectedly. Knowing where I in¬ 
tended to stay, he had called occasionally till I 
notified Madame D. of the day and hour of my 
arrival, and then he had come to “make the fine 
surprise.” He enjoyed the joke like a true boy, and 
I was glad to see how well he looked, and how gay 
he seemed. 

“You are better?” I said. 

“ I truly hope so. The winter was good to me 
and I cough less. It is a small hope, but I do not 
enlarge my fear by a sad face. I yet work and save 
a little purse, so that I may not be a heaviness to 


MY BOYS. 


25 


those who have the charity to finish me if I fall back 
and yet die.” 

I would not hear of that, and told him he looked 
as well and happy as if he had found a fortune. 

He laughed, and answered with his fine bow, “ I 
have. Behold, you come to make the fete for me. 
I find also here my friends Joseph and Napoleon. 
Poor as mouses of the church, as you say, but brave 
boys, and we work together with much gayety.” 

When I asked if he had leisure to be my guide 
about Paris, for my time was short and I wanted to 
see every thing , he pranced, and told me he had prom¬ 
ised himself a holiday, and had planned many excur¬ 
sions the most wonderful, charming, and gay. Then, 
having settled me at Madame’s, he went blithely 
away to what I afterward discovered were very poor 
lodgings, across the river. 

Next day began the pleasantest fortnight in all 
my year of travel. Laddie appeared early, elegant 
to behold in a new hat and buff gloves, and was 
immensely amused because the servant informed me 
that my big son had arrived. 


26 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


I believe the first thing a woman does in Paris is 
to buy a new bonnet. I did, or rather stood by and 
let “ my son ” do it in the best of French, only whis¬ 
pering when he proposed gorgeous chapeaus full of 
flowers and feathers, that I could not afford it. 

“Ah! we must make our economies, must we? 
See, then, this modest, pearl-colored one, with the 
crape rose. Yes, we will have that, and be most 
elegant for the Sunday promenade.” 

I fear I should have bought a pea-green hat with a 
yellow plume if he had urged it, so wheedlesome and 
droll were his ways and words. His good taste 
saved me, however, and the modest one was sent 
home for the morrow, when we were to meet Joseph 
and Napoleon and go to the concert in the Tuileries 
garden. 

Then we set off on our day of sight-seeing, and 
Laddie proved himself an excellent guide. We 
had a charming trip about the enchanted city, a 
gay lunch at a cafe, and a first brief glimpse of the 
Louvre. At dinner-time I found a posy at my place; 
and afterward Laddie came and spent the evening 


MY BOYS. 


27 


in my little salon, playing to me, and having what 
he called “ babblings and pleasantries.” I found 
that he was translating “ Vanity Fair ” into Polish, 
and intended to sell it at home. He convulsed me 
with his struggles to put cockney English and slang 
into good Polish, for he had saved up a list of 
words for me to explain to him. Haystack and 
bean-pot were among them, I remember; and when 
he had mastered the meanings he fell upon the sofa 
exhausted. 

Other days like this followed, and we led a happy 
life together; for my twelve years’ seniority made 
our adventures quite proper, and I fearlessly went 
anywhere on the arm of my big son. Not to thea¬ 
tres or balls, however, for heated rooms were bad 
for Laddie, but pleasant trips out of the city in 
the bright spring weather, quiet strolls in the gar¬ 
dens, moonlight concerts in the Champs Elysees; 
or, best of all, long talks with music in the little red 
salon, with the gas turned low, and the ever-chang¬ 
ing scenes of the Rue de Rivoli under the balcony. 

Never were pleasures more cheaply purchased or 


28 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


more thoroughly enjoyed, for our hearts were as 
light as our purses, and our “ little economies ” gave 
zest to our amusements. 

Joseph and Napoleon sometimes joined us, and I 
felt in my element with the three invalid soldier 
boys, for Napoleon still limped with a wound re¬ 
ceived in the war, Joseph had never recovered from 
his two years’ imprisonment in an Austrian dun¬ 
geon, and Laddie’s loyalty might yet cost him his 
life. 

Thanks to them, I discovered a joke played upon 
me by my “ polisson? He told me to call him “ ma 
drogha,” saying it meant “ my friend,” in Polish. I 
innocently did so, and he seemed to find great plea- 
ure in it, for his eyes always laughed when I said it. 
Using it one day before the other lads, I saw a queer 
twinkle in their eyes, and, suspecting mischief, de¬ 
manded the real meaning of the words. Laddie 
tried to silence them, but the joke was too good tG 
keep, and I found to my dismay that I had been 
calling him <c my darling ” in the tenderest manner. 

How the three rascals shouted, and what a vain 


MY BOYS. 


29 


struggle it was to try and preserve my dignity when 
Laddie clasped his hands and begged pardon, ex¬ 
plaining that jokes were necessary to his health, and 
he never meant me to know the full baseness of 
this “ pleasantrie! ” I revenged myself by giving 
him some bad English for his translation, and tell¬ 
ing him of it just as I left Paris. 

It was not all fun with my boy, however; he had 
his troubles, and in spite of his cheerfulness he knew 
what heartache was. Walking in the quaint garden 
of the Luxembourg one day, he confided to me the 
little romance of his life. A very touching little 
romance as he told it, with eloquent eyes and voice 
and frequent pauses for breath. I cannot give his 
words, but the simple facts were these: — 

He had grown up with a pretty cousin, and at 
eighteen was desperately in love with her. She 
returned his affection, but they could not be happy, 
for her father wished her to marry a richer man. 
In Poland, to marry without the consent of parents 
is to incur lasting disgrace; so Leonore obeyed, and 
the young pair parted. This had been a heavy sor- 


30 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


row to Laddie, and he rushed into the war hoping 
to end his trouble. 

“ Do you ever hear from your cousin ? ” I asked, 
as he walked beside me, looking sadly down the 
green aisles where kings and queens had loved and 
parted years ago. 

“I only know that she suffers still, for she remem¬ 
bers. Her husband submits to the Russians, and I 
despise him as I have no English to tell; ” and he 
clenched his hands with the flash of the eye and 
gudden kindling of the whole face that made him 
handsome. • 

He showed me a faded little picture, and when I 
tried to comfort him, he laid his head down on the 
pedestal of one of the marble queens who guard the 
walk, as if he never cared to lift it up again. 

But he was all right in a minute, and bravely 
put away his sorrow with the little picture. He 
never spoke of it again, and I saw no more shadows 
on his face till we came to say good-by. 

“ You have been so kind to me, I wish I had some¬ 
thing beautiful to give you, Laddie,” I said, feeling 
that it would be hard to get on without my boy. 


MY BOYS. 


31 


“ This time it is for always; so, as a parting sou¬ 
venir, give to me the sweet English goocl-by.” 

As he said this, with a despairing sort of look, as 
if he could not spare even so humble a friend as my¬ 
self, my heart was quite rent within me, and, regard¬ 
less of several prim English ladies, I drew down his 
tall head and kissed him tenderly, feeling that in 
this world there were no more meetings for us. 
Then I ran away and buried myself in an empty 
railway carriage, hugging the little cologne bottle he 
had given me. 

He promised to write, and for five years he has 
kept his word, sending me from Paris and Poland 
cheery, bright letters in English, at my desire, so 
that he might not forget. Here is one as a speci¬ 
men. 

“ My Dear and Good Friend, — What do you 
think of me that I do not write so long time ? Ex¬ 
cuse me, my good mamma, for I was so busy in these 
days I could not do this pleasant thing. I write 
English without the fear that you laugh at it, be- 


32 


AUNT JO'S SCRAP-BAG. 


cause I know it is more agreeable to read the own 
language, and I think you are not excepted of this 
rule. It is good of me, for the expressions of love 
and regard, made with faults, take the funny appear¬ 
ance; they are ridicule , and instead to go to the 
heart, they make the laugh. Never mind, I do it. 

“ You cannot imagine yourself how stupide is 
Paris when you are gone. I fly to my work, and 
make no more fetes, — it is too sad alone. I tie my¬ 
self to my table and my Vanity (not of mine, for I 
am not vain, am I ?). I wish some chapters to finish 
themselfs vite , that I send them to Pologne and 
know the end. I have a little question to ask you 
(of Vanity as always). I cannot translate this, no 
one of dictionnaires makes me the words, and I 
think it is jargon de prison , this little period. 
Behold: — 


* Mopy, is that your snum ? ’ 

‘Nubble your dad and gully the dog/ &c. 

“So funny things I cannot explain myself, so I 
send to you, and you reply sooner than without it, 


MY BOYS. 


88 

for you have so kind interest in my work you do not 
stay to wait. So this is a little hook for you to make 
you write some words to your son who likes it so 
much and is fond of you. 

“ My doctor tells me my lungs are soon to be re¬ 
established ; so you may imagine yourself how glad 
I am, and of more courage in my future. You may 
one day see your Varjo in Amerique, if I study 
commerce as I wish. So then the last time of seeing 
ourselves is not the last. Is that to please you ? I 
suppose the grand histoire is finished, rU est ce pas f 
You will then send it to me care of M. Gryhomski 
Austriche, and he will give to me in clandestine 
way at Varsovie, otherwise it will be confiscated at 
the frontier by the stupide Russians. 

“Now we are dispersed in two sides of world far 
apart, for soon I go home to Pologne and am no 
more i juif errant .’ It is now time I work at my 
life in some useful way, and I do it. 

“ As I am your grand fils , it is proper that I make 
you my compliment of happy Christmas and New 
Year, is it not? I wish for you 30 many as they 

3 


34 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


may fulfil long human life. May this year bring 
you more and more good hearts to love you (the 
only real happiness in the hard life), and may I be 
as now, yours for always, 

“ Varjo,” 

A year ago he sent me his photograph and a few 
lines. I acknowledged the receipt of it, but since 
then not a word has come, and I begin to fear that 
my boy is dead. Others have appeared to take his 
place, but they don’t suit, and I keep his comer al¬ 
ways ready for him if he lives. If he is dead, I am 
glad to have known so sweet and brave a character, 
for it does one good to see even as short-lived and 
obscure a hero as my Polish boy, whose dead De¬ 
cember rose embalms for me the memory of Varjo, 
the last and dearest of my boys. 

It is hardly necessary to add, for the satisfaction 
of inquisitive little women, that Laddie was the 
original of Laurie, as far as a pale pen and ink 
sketch could embody a living, loving boy. 


TESSA’S SURPRISES. 


I. 

ITTLE TESSA sat alone by the fire, waiting 



for her father to come home from work. The 
children were fast asleep, all four in the big bed 
behind the curtain; the wind blew hard outside, 
and the snow beat on the window-panes; the room 
was large, and the fire so small and feeble that it 
didn’t half warm the little bare toes peeping out of 
the old shoes on the hearth. 

Tessa’s father was an Italian plaster-worker, very 
poor, but kind and honest. The mother had died 
not long ago, and left twelve-year old Tessa to take 
care of the little children. She tried to be very wise 
and motherly, and worked for them like any little 
woman; but it was so hard to keep the small bodies 
warm and fed, and the small souls good and happy, 
that poor Tessa was often at her wits’ end. She 


36 


AUNT JO'S SCRAP-BAG. 


always waited for her father, no matter how tired 
she was, so that he might find his supper warm, a 
bit of fire, and a loving little face to welcome him. 
Tessa thought over her troubles at these quiet times, 
and made her plans; for her father left things to her 
a good deal, and she had no friends but Tommo, the 
harp-boy upstairs, and the lively cricket who lived 
in the chimney. To-night her face was very sober, 
and her pretty brown eyes very thoughtful as she 
stared at the fire and knit her brows, as if perplexed. 
She was not thinking of her old shoes, nor the empty 
closet, nor the boys’ ragged clothes just then. No; 
she had a fine plan in her good little head, and was 
trying to discover how she could carry it out. 

You see, Christmas was coming in a week; and 
she had set her heart on putting something in the 
children’s stockings, as the mother used to do, for 
while she li^ed things were comfortable. Now Tessa 
had not a penny in the world, and didn’t know how 
to get one, for all the father’s earnings had to go for 
food, fire, and rent. 

“ If there w^re only fairies, ah! how heavenly that 


TESSA’S SURPRISES. 


37 


would be; for then, I should tell them all I wish, 
and, pop! behold the fine things in my lap! ” said 
Tessa to herself. “ I must earn the money; there is 
no one to give it to me, and I cannot beg. But 
what can I do, so small and stupid and shy as I am ? 
I must find some way to give the little ones a nice 
Christmas. I must! I must! ” and Tessa pulled her 
long hah', as if that would help her think. 

But it didn’t, and her heart got heavier and 
heavier; for it did seem hard that in a great city 
full of fine things, there should be none for poor 
Nono, Sep, and little Speranza. Just as Tessa’s 
tears began to tumble off her eyelashes on to her 
brown cheeks, the cricket began to chirp. Of course, 
he didn’t say a word; but it really did seem as if he 
had answered her question almost as well as a fairy; 
for, before he had piped a dozen shrill notes, an idea 
popped into Tessa’s head, — such a truly splendid 
idea that she clapped her hands and burst out 
laughing. “ I’ll do it! I’ll do it! if father will let 
me,” she said to herself, smiling and nodding at the 
fire. “ Tommo will like to have me go with him 


38 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


and sing, while he plays his harp in the streets. I 
know many songs, and may get money if I am 
not frightened; for people throw pennies to other 
little girls who only play the tambourine. Yes, I 
will try; and then, if I do well, the little ones shall 
have a Merry Christmas.” 

So full of her plan was Tessa, that she ran upstairs 
at once, and asked Tommo if he would take her with 
him on the morrow. Her friend was delighted, for 
he thought Tessa’s songs very sweet, and was sure 
she would get money if she tried. 

“ But see, then, it is cold in the streets; the wind 
bites, and the snow freezes one’s fingers. The day 
is very long, people are cross, and at night one is 
ready to die with weariness. Thou art so small, 
Tessa, I am afraid it will go badly with thee,” said 
Tommo, who was a merry, black-eyed boy of four¬ 
teen, with the kindest heart in the world under his 
old jacket. 

“ I do not mind cold and wet and cross people, if 
I can get the pennies,” answered Tessa, feeling very 
brave with such a friend to help her. She thanked 


TESSA’S SURPRISES. 


39 


Tommo, and ran away to get ready, for she felt sure 
her father would not refuse her any thing. She 
sewed up the holes in her shoes as well as she could, 
for she had much of that sort of cobbling to do; she 
mended her only gown, and laid ready the old hood 
and shawl which had been her mother’s. Then she 
washed out little Ranza’s frock and put it to dry, 
because she would not be able to do it the next day. 
She set the table and got things ready for breakfast, 
for Tommo went out early, and must not be kept 
waiting for her. She longed to make the beds and 
dress the children over night, she was in such a 
hurry to have all in order; but, as that could not be, 
she sat down again, and tried over all the songs she 
knew. Six pretty ones were chosen; and she sung 
away with all her heart in a fresh little voice so 
sweetly that the children smiled in their sleep, and 
her father’s tired face brightened as he entered, for 
Tessa was his cheery cricket on the hearth. When 
she had told her plan, Peter Benari shook his head, 
and thought it would never do; but Tessa begged so 
bard, he consented at last that she should try it for 


40 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


one week, and sent her to bed the happiest little girl 
in New York. 

Next morning the sun shone, but the cold wind 
blew, and the snow lay thick in the streets. As 
soon as her father was gone, Tessa flew about and 
put every thing in nice order, telling the children she 
was going out for the day, and they were to mind 
Tommo’s mother, who would see about the fire and 
the dinner; for the good woman loved Tessa, and 
entered into her little plans with all her heart. Nono 
and Guiseppe, or Sep, as they called him, wondered 
what she was going away for, and little Ranza cried 
at being left; but Tessa told them they would know 
all about it in a week, and have a fine time if they 
were good; so they kissed her all round and let 
her go. 

Poor Tessa’s heart beat fast as she trudged away 
with Tommo, who slung his harp over his shoulder, 
and gave her his hand. It was rather a dirty hand, 
but so kind that Tessa clung to it, and kept looking 
up at the friendly brown face for encouragement. 

“ We go first to the cafe , where many French and 


TESSA’S SURPRISES. 


41 


Italians eat the breakfast. They like my music, and 
often give me sips of hot coffee, which I like much. 
You too shall have the sips, and perhaps the pennies, 
for these people are greatly kind,” said Tommo, 
leading her into a large smoky place, where many 
people sat at little tables, eating and drinking. 
“ See, now, have no fear; give them ‘ Bella Monica; ’ 
that is merry and will make the laugh,” whispered 
Tommo, tuning his harp. 

For a moment Tessa felt so frightened that she 
wanted to run away; but she remembered the empty 
stockings at home, and the fine plan, and she re¬ 
solved not to give it up. One fat old Frenchman 
nodded to her, and it seemed to help her very much; 
for she began to sing before she thought, and that 
was the hardest part of it. Iler voice trembled, and 
her cheeks grew redder and redder as she went on ; 
but she kept her eyes fixed on her old shoes, and so 
got through without breaking down, which was very 
nice. The people laughed, for the song was merry; 
and the fat man smiled and nodded again. This 
gave her courage to try another, and she sung better 


42 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


and better each time; for Tommo played his best, 
and kept whispering to her, “ Yes; we go well; this 
is fine. They will give the money and the blessed 
coffee.” 

So they did; for, when the little concert was over, 
several men put pennies in the cap Tessa offered, 
and the fat man took her on his knee, and ordered 
a mug of coffee, and some bread and butter for them 
both. This quite won her heart; and when they 
left the cafe , she kissed her hand to the old French¬ 
man, and said to her friend, “ How kind they are! 
I like this very much; and now it is not h ard.” 

But Tommo shook his curly head, and answered, 
soberly, “Yes, I took you there first, for they love 
music, and are of our country; but up among the 
great houses we shall not always do well. The peo¬ 
ple there are busy or hard or idle, and care nothing 
for harps and songs. Do not skip and laugh too 
soon; for the day is long, and we have but twelve 
pennies yet.” 

Tessa walked more quietly, and rubbed her cold 
hands, feeling that the world was a very big place, 


TESSA’S SURPRISES. 


43 


and wondering how the children got on at home 
without the little mother. Till noon they did not 
earn much, for every one seemed in a hurry, and the 
noise of many sleigh-bells drowned the music. 
Slowly they made their way up to the great squares 
where the big houses were, with fine ladies and 
pretty children at the windows. Here Tessa sung 
all her best songs, and Tommo played as fast as his 
fingers could fly; but it was too cold to have the 
windows open, so the pretty children could not 
listen long, and the ladies tossed out a little money, 
and soon went back to their own affairs. 

All the afternoon the two friends wandered about, 
singing and playing, and gathering up their small har¬ 
vest. At dusk they went home, — Tessa so hoarse 
she could hardly speak, and so tired she fell asleep 
over her supper. But she had made half a dollar, 
for Tommo divided the money fairly, and she felt 
rich with her share. The other days were very much 
like this; sometimes they made more, sometimes 
less, but Tommo always “went halves and Tessa 
kept on, in spite of cold and weariness, for her plans 


44 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


grew as her earnings increased, and now she hoped 
to get useful things, instead of candy and toys 
alone. 

On the day before Christmas she made herself as 
tidy as she could, for she hoped to earn a good deal. 
She tied a bright scarlet handkerchief over the old 
hood, and the brilliant color set off her brown cheeks 
and bright eyes, as well as the pretty black braids 
of her hair. Tommo’s mother lent her a pair of 
boots so big that they turned up at the toes, but 
there were no holes in them, and Tessa felt quite 
elegant in whole boots. Her hands were covered 
with chilblains, for she had no mittens; but she put 
them under her shawl, and scuffled merrily away in 
her big boots, feeling so glad that the week was 
over, and nearly three dollars safe in her pocket. 
How gay the streets were that day ! how brisk every 
one was, and how bright the faces looked, as people 
trotted about with big baskets, holly-wreaths, and 
young evergreens going to blossom into splendid 
Christmas trees! 

“If I could have a tree for the children, I’d never 


TESSA’S SURPRISES. 


45 


want any thing again. But I can’t; so I ’ll fill the 
socks all full, and be happy,” said Tessa, as she 
looked wistfully into the gay stores, and saw the 
heavy baskets go by. 

“ Who knows what may happen if we do well ? ” 
returned Tommo, nodding wisely, for he had a plan 
as well as Tessa, and kept chuckling over it as he 
trudged through the mud. They did not do well, 
somehow, for every one seemed so full of their own 
affairs they could not stop to listen, even to “ Bella 
Monica,” but bustled away to spend their money in 
turkeys, toys, and.trees. In the afternoon it began 
to rain, and poor Tessa’s heart to fail her; for the 
big boots tired her feet, the cold wind made her 
hands ache, and the rain spoilt the fine red handker¬ 
chief. Even Tommo looked sober, and didn’t whistle 
as he walked, for he also was disappointed, and his 
plan looked rather doubtful, the pennies came in so 
slowly. 

“We’ll try one more street, and then go homey 
thou art so tired, little one. Come; let me wipe thy 
face, and give me thy hand here in my jacket pocket j 


46 


AUNT JO'S SCRAP-BAG. 


there it will be as warm as any kitten; ” and kind 
Tomrno brushed away the drops which were not all 
rain from Tessa’s cheeks, tucked the poor hand into 
his ragged pocket, and led her carefully along the 
slippery streets, for the boots nearly tripped her up. 


II. 

At the first house, a cross old gentleman flapped 
his newspaper at them; at the second, a young 
gentleman and lady were so busy talking, that they 
never turned their heads ; and at the third, a servant 
came out and told them to go away, because some 
one was sick. At the fourth, some people let them 
sing all their songs, and gave nothing. The next 
three houses were empty; and the last of all showed 
not a single face, as they looked up anxiously. It was 
so cold, so dark and discouraging, that Tessa couldn’t 
help one sob; and, as he glanced down at the little 
red nose and wet figure beside him, Tommo gave his 
harp an angry thump, and said something very fierce 
in Italian. They were just going to turn away; but 


TESSA’S SURPRISES. 


47 


they didn’t, for that angry thump happened to be the 
best thing they could have done. All of a sudden 
a little head appeared at the window, as if the sound 
had brought it; then another and another, till there 
were five, of all heights and colors, and five eager 
faces peeped out, smiling and nodding to the two 
below. 

“ Sing, Tessa ; sing ! Quick ! quick ! ” cried 
Tommo, twanging away with all his might, and 
showing his white teeth, as he smiled back at the 
little gentle-folk. 

Bless us! How Tessa did tune up at that! She 
chirped away like a real bird, forgetting all about the 
tears on her cheeks, the ache in her hands, and the 
heaviness at her heart. The children laughed, and 
clapped their hands, and cried “ More ! more ! Sing 
another, little girl! Please, do! ” And away they 
went again, piping and playing, till Tessa’s breath 
was gone, and Tommo’s stout fingers tingled well. 

“ Mamma says, come to the door; it’s too muddy 
to throw the money in the street! ” cried out a kindly 
child’s voice, as Tessa held up the old cap, with bey 
seeching eyes. 


48 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


Up the wide stone steps went the street musicians, 
and the whole flock came running down to give a 
handful of silver, and ask all sorts of questions. 
Tessa felt so grateful, that, without waiting for 
Tommo, she sang her sweetest little song all alone. 
It was about a lost lamb, and her heart was in the 
song; therefore, she sang it well, so well, that a 
pretty young lady came down to listen, and stood 
watching the bright-eyed child, who looked about 
her as she sang, evidently enjoying the light and 
warmth of the fine hall, and the sight of the lovely 
children with their gay dresses, shining hair, and 
dainty little shoes. 

“You have a charming voice, child. Who taught 
you to sing ? ” asked the young lady, kindly. 

“My mother. She is dead now; but I do not 
forget,” answered Tessa, in her pretty broken Eng¬ 
lish. 

“ I wish she could sing at our tree, since Bella is 
ill,” cried one of the children, peeping through the 
banisters. 

“She is not fair enough for the angel, and too 


TESSA’S SURPRISES. 


49 


large to go up in the tree. But she sings sweetly, 
and looks as if she would like to see a tree,” said the 
young lady. 

“ Oh, so much! ” exclaimed Tessa; adding eagerly, 
“my sister Ranza is small and pretty as a baby- 
angel. She could sit up in the fine tree, and I could 
sing for her from under the table.” 

“ Sit down and warm yourself, and tell me about 
Ranza,” said the kind elder sister, who liked the 
confiding little girl, in spite of her shabby clothes. 

So Tessa sat down and dried the big boots over 
the furnace, and told her story, while Tommo stood 
modestly in the background, and the children 
listened with faces full of interest. 

“O Rose! Let us see the little girl; and if she 
will do, let us have her, and Tessa can learn our 
song, and it will be splendid!” cried the biggest 
boy, who sat astride of a chair, and stared at the 
harp with round eyes. 

“ I’ll ask mamma,” said Rose; and away she went 
into the dining-room close by. As the door opened, 
Tessa saw what looked to her like a fairy feast,— 

4 


50 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


all silver mugs and flowery plates and oranges and 
nuts and rosy wine in tall glass pitchers, and smok¬ 
ing dishes that smelt so deliciously she could not 
restrain a little sniff of satisfaction. 

“ Are you hungry ? ” asked the boy, in a grand 
tone. 

“Yes, sir,” meekly answered Tessa. 

“ I say, mamma; she wants something to eat. 
Can I give her an orange ? ” called the boy, pranc¬ 
ing away into the splendid room, quite like a fairy 
prince, Tessa thought. 

A plump, motherly lady came out and looked at 
Tessa, asked a few questions, and then told her to 
come to-morrow with Ranza, and they would see 
what could be done. Tessa clapped her hands for 
joy, — she didn’t mind the chilblains now, — and 
Tommo played a lively march, he was so pleased. 

“ Will you come, too, and bring your harp? You 
shall be paid, and shall have something from the 
tree, likewise,” said the motherly lady, who liked 
what Tessa gratefully told about his kindness to her. 

“ Ah, yes; I shall come with much gladness, and 


TESSA’S SURPRISES. 


51 


play as never in my life before,” cried Tommo, with 
a flourish of the old cap that made the children 
laugh. 

“Give these to your brothers,” said the fairy 
prince, stuffing nuts and oranges into Tessa’s hands. 

“And these to the little girl,” added one of the 
young princesses, flying out of the dining-room with 
cakes and rosy apples for Ranza. 

Tessa didn’t know what to say; but her eyes 
were full, and she just took the mother’s white hand 
in both her little grimy ones, and kissed it many 
times in her pretty Italian fashion. The lady under¬ 
stood her, and stroked her cheek softly, saying to 
her elder daughter, “ We must take care of this 
good little creature. Freddy, bring me your mit¬ 
tens ; these poor hands must be covered. Alice, get 
your play-hood; this handkerchief is all wet; and, 
Maud, bring the old chinchilla tippet.” 

The children ran, and in a minute there were 
lovely blue mittens on the red hands, a warm hood 
over the black braids, and a soft “ pussy ” round the 
sore throat. 


52 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


“Ah! so kind, so very kind! I have no way to 
»ay ‘ thank you; ’ but Ranza shall be for you a 
heavenly angel, and I will sing my heart out for 
your tree! ” cried Tessa, folding the mittens as if 
she would say a prayer of thankfulness if she knew 
how. 

Then they went away, and the pretty children 
called after them, “ Come again, Tessa! come again, 
Tommo!” Now the rain didn’t seem dismal, the 
wind cold, nor the way long, as they bought their 
gifts and hurried home, for kind words and the 
sweet magic of charity had changed all the world 
to them. 

I think the good spirits who fly about on Christ¬ 
mas Eve, to help the loving fillers of little stockings, 
smiled very kindly on Tessa as she brooded joyfully 
over the small store of presents that seemed so mag¬ 
nificent to her. All the goodies were divided evenly 
into three parts and stowed away in father’s three 
big socks, which hung against the curtain. With 
her three dollars, she had got a pair of shoes for 
Nono, a knit cap for Sep, and a pair of white stock- 


TESSA’S SURPRISES. 


53 


iugs for Ranza; to her she also gave the new hood; 
to Nono the mittens ; and to Sep the tippet. 

“Now the dear boys can go out, and my Ranza 
will be ready for the lady to see, in her nice new 
things,” said Tessa, quite sighing with pleasure to 
see how well the gifts looked pinned up beside the 
bulging socks, which wouldn’t hold them all. The 
little mother kept nothing for herself but the pleas¬ 
ure of giving every thing away; yet, I think, she 
was both richer and happier than if she had kept 
them all. Her father laughed as he had not done 
since the mother died, when he saw how comically 
the old curtain had broken out into boots and hoods, 
stockings and tippets. 

“ I wish I had a gold gown and a silver hat for 
thee, my Tessa, thou art so good. May the saints 
bless and keep thee always! ” said Peter Benari 
tenderly, as he held his little daughter close, and 
gave her the good-night kiss. 

Tessa felt very rich as she crept under the faded 
counterpane, feeling as if she had received a lovely 
gift, and fell happily asleep with chubby Ranza in 


54 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


her arms, and the two rough black heads peeping 
out at the foot of the bed. She dreamed wonderful 
dreams that night, and woke in the morning to find 
real wonders before her eyes. She got up early, to 
see if the socks were all right, and there she found 
the most astonishing sight. Four socks, instead of 
three; and by the fourth, pinned out quite elegantly, 
was a little dress, evidently meant for her, — a warm, 
woollen dress, all made, and actually with bright 
buttons on it. It nearly took her breath away; so 
did the new boots on the floor, and the funny long 
stocking like a gray sausage, with a wooden doll 
staring out at the top, as if she said, politely, u A 
Merry Christmas, ma’am ! ” Tessa screamed and 
danced in her delight, and up tumbled all the chil¬ 
dren to scream and dance with her, making a regular 
carnival on a small scale. Everybody hugged and 
kissed everybody else, offered sucks of orange, bites 
of cake, and exchanges of candy; every one tried 
on the new things, and pranced about in them like 
a flock of peacocks. Ranza skipped to and fro airily, 
dressed in her white socks and the red hood; the 


TESSA’S SURPRISES. 


55 


boys promenaded in their little shirts, one with his 
creaking new shoes and mittens, the other in his 
gay cap and fine tippet; and Tessa put her dress 
straight on, feeling that her father’s “ gold gown ” 
was not all a joke. In her long stocking she found 
all sorts of treasures; for Tommo had stuffed it full 
of queer things, and his mother had made ginger¬ 
bread into every imaginable shape, from fat pigs to 
full omnibuses. 

Dear me! What happy little souls they were 
that morning; and when they were quiet again, how 
like a fairy tale did Tessa’s story sound to them. 
Ranza was quite ready to be an angel; and the boys 
promised to be marvellously good, if they were only 
allowed to see the tree at the “palace,” as they 
called the great house. 

Little Ranza was accepted with delight by the 
kind lady and her children, and Tessa learned the 
song quite easily. The boys were asked ; and, after 
a happy day, the young Italians all returned, to play 
their parts at the fine Christmas party. Mamma 
and Miss Rose drilled them all; and, when the fold- 


56 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


ing-doors flew open, one rapturous “Oh!” arose 
from the crowd of children gathered to the festival. 
I assure you, it was splendid; the great tree glitter¬ 
ing with lights and gifts; and, on her invisible perch, 
up among the green boughs, sat the little golden¬ 
haired angel, all in white, with downy wings, a 
shining crown on her head, and the most serene 
satisfaction in her blue eyes, as she stretched her 
chubby arms to those below, and smiled her baby 
smile at them. Before any one could speak, a voice, 
as fresh and sweet as a lark’s, sang the Christmas 
Carol so blithely, that every one stood still to hear, 
and then clapped till the little angel shook on her 
perch, and cried out, “ Be ’till, or me’ll fall! ” How 
they laughed at that; and what fun they had talking 
to Ranza, while Miss Rose stripped the tree, for the 
angel could not resist temptation, and amused her¬ 
self by eating all the bonbons she could reach, till 
she was taken down, to dance about like a fairy in a 
white frock and red shoes. Tessa and her friends 
had many presents; the boys were perfect lambs, 
Tommo played for the little folks to dance, and 


TESSA’S SURPRISES. 


57 


every one said something friendly to the strangers, 
so that they did not feel shy, in spite of shabby 
clothes. It was a happy night; and all their lives 
they remembered it as something too beautiful and 
bright to be quite true. Before they went home, 
the kind mamma told Tessa she should be her 
friend, and gave her a motherly kiss, which warmed 
the child’s heart and seemed to set a seal upon that 
promise. It was faithfully kept, for the rich lady 
had been touched by Tessa’s patient struggles and 
sacrifices; and for many years, thanks to her benev¬ 
olence, there was no end to Tessa’s Surprises. 


58 


AUNT JO'S SCRAP-BAG. 


BUZZ. 

T LIVE high up in a city house all alone. My 
room is a cosy little place, though there is 
nothing very splendid in it, — only my pictures 
and books, my flowers and my little friend. When 
I began to live there, I was very busy and there¬ 
fore very happy; but by and by, when my hurry 
was over and I had more time to myself, I often 
felt lonely. When I ate my meals I used to wish 
for a pleasant companion to eat with me; and when 
I sat by the fire evenings, I thought how much more 
social it would be if some one sat opposite. I had 
many friends and callers through the day, but the 
evenings were often rather dull; for I couldn’t read 
much, and didn’t care to go out in the stormy 
weather. 

I was wishing for a cheerful friend one night, 
when all of a sudden I found one; for, sitting on 


BUZZ. 


59 


my hand, I saw a plump, jolly-looking fly. He sat 
quietly staring at me, with a mild little hum, as if 
to say,— 

“How are you? You wanted a friend, and here 
I am. Will you have me ? ” 

Of course I would, for I liked him directly, he was 
so cheery and confiding, and seemed as glad to see 
me as I was to see him. All his mates were dead 
and gone, and he was alone, like myself. So I wag¬ 
gled one finger, by way of welcome, fearing to shake 
my hand, lest he should tumble off and feel hurt at 
my reception. He seemed to understand me, and 
buzzed again, evidently saying, — 

“ Thank you, ma’am. I should like to stay in your 
warm room, and amuse you for my board. I won’t 
disturb you, but do my best to be a good little 
friend.” 

So the bargain was struck, and he stopped to tea. 
I found that his manners had been neglected; for he 
was inclined to walk over the butter, drink out of 
the cream-pot, and put his fingers in the jelly. A 
few taps with my spoon taught him to behave with 


60 


AUNT JO'S SCRAP-BAG. 


more propriety, and he sipped a drop of milk from 
the waiter with a crumb of sugar, as a well-bred fly 
should do. 

On account of his fine voice, I named him Buzz, 
and we soon got on excellently together. He 
seemed to like his new quarters, and, after explor¬ 
ing every corner of the room, he chose his favorite 
haunts and began to enjoy himself. I always knew 
where he was, for he kept up a constant song, hum¬ 
ming and buzzing, like a little kettle getting ready 
to boil. 

On sunny days, he amused himself by bumping 
his head against the window, and watching what 
went on outside. It would have given me a head¬ 
ache, but he seemed to enjoy it immensely. Up 
in my hanging basket of ivy he made his bower, 
and sat there on the moss basking in the sunshine, 
as luxuriously as any gentleman in his conservatory. 
He was interested in the plants, and examined them 
daily with great care, walking over the ivy leaves, 
grubbing under the moss, and poking his head into 
the unfolding hyacinth buds to see how they got on. 


BUZZ. 


61 


The pictures, also, seemed to attract his attention, 
for he spent much time skating over the glasses and 
studying the designs. Sometimes I would find him 
staring at my Madonna, as if he said, “ What in the 
world are all those topsy-turvy children about ? ” 
Then he’d sit in the middle of a brook, in a water- 
color sketch by Yautin, as if bathing his feet, or 
seem to be eating the cherry which one little duck 
politely offers another little duck, in Oscar Pletcli’s 
Summer Party. He frequently kissed my mother’s 
portrait, and sat on my father’s bald head, as if try¬ 
ing to get out some of the wisdom stored up there, 
like honey in an ill-thatched bee-hive. My bronze 
Mercury rather puzzled him, for he could not under¬ 
stand why the young gentleman didn’t fly off when 
he had four wings and seemed in such a hurry. 

I’m afraid he was a trifle vain, for he sat before 
the glass a great deal, and I often saw him cleaning 
his proboscis, and twiddling his feelers, and I know 
he was “ prinking,” as we say. The books pleased 
him, too, and he used to run them over, as if trying 
to choose which he would read, and never seemed 


62 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


able to decide. He would have nothing to say to 
the fat French Dictionary, or my English Plays, but 
liked Goethe and Schiller, Emerson and Browning, 
as well as I did. Carlyle didn’t suit him, and 
Richter evidently made his head ache. But Jean 
Ingelow’s Poems delighted him, and so did her 
“Stories Told to a Child.” “Fairy Bells” he often 
listened to, and was very fond of the pictures in a 
photograph book of foreign places and great people. 

He frequently promenaded on the piazza of a 
little Swiss chalet, standing on the mantel-piece, 
and thought it a charming residence for a single 
gentleman like himself. The closet delighted him 
extremely, and he buzzed in the most joyful manner 
when he got among the provisions, — for we kept 
house together. Such revels as he had in the sugar- 
bowl; such feasts of gingerbread and grapes; such 
long sips of milk, and sly peeps into every uncovered 
box and dish! Once I’m afraid he took too much 
cider, for I found him lying on his back, kicking and 
humming like a crazy top, and he was very queer all 
the rest of that day; so I kept the bottle corked 


BUZZ. 


6S 


after that. But his favorite nook was among the 
ferns in the vase which a Parian dancing-girl earned. 
She stood just over the stove on one little toe, rat¬ 
tling some castanets, which made no sound, and 
never getting a step farther for all her prancing. 
This was a warm and pretty retreat for Buzz, and 
there he spent much of his time, swinging on the 
ferns, sleeping snugly in the vase, or warming his 
feet in the hot air that blew up, like a south wind, 
from the stove. 

I don’t believe there was a happier fly in Boston 
than my friend Buzz, and I grew fonder and fonder 
of him every day; for he never got into mischief, 
but sung his cheery song, no matter what the 
weather was, and made himself agreeable. Then 
he was so interested in all I did, it was delightful 
to have him round. When I wrote he came and 
walked about over my paper to see that it was right, 
peeped into my ink-stand, and ran after my pen. 
He never made silly or sharp criticisms on my 
stories, but appeared to admire them very much; 
so I am sure he was a good judge. When I sewed. 


64 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


he sat in my basket, or played hide-and-seek in the 
folds of my work, talking away all the while in the 
most sociable manner. He often flew up all of a 
sudden, and danced about in the air, as if he was in 
such a jolly mood he couldn’t keep still, and wanted 
me to come and play with him. But, alas! I had 
no wings, and could only sit stupidly still, and laugh 
at his pranks. That was his exercise, for he never 
went out, and only took a sniff of air now and then 
when I opened the windows. 

Well, little Buzz and I lived together many weeks, 
and never got tired of one another, which is saying 
a good deal. At Christmas I w T ent home for a week 
and left my room to take care of itself. I put the 
hyacinths into the closet to be warm, and dropped 
the curtain, so the frost should not nip my ivy; but 
I forgot Buzz. I really would have taken him with 
me, or carried him down to a neighbor’s room to be 
taken care of while I was away, but I never thought 
of him in the hurry of getting my presents and my¬ 
self ready. Off I went without even saying “ good- 
by,” and never thought of my little friend till 


BUZZ. 


65 


Freddy, my small nephew, said to me one evening 
at dusk, — 

“ Aunt Jo, tell me a story.” 

So I began to tell him about Buzz, and all of a 
sudden I cried out, — 

“ Mercy on me! I’m afraid he’ll die of cold while 
I’m gone.” 

It troubled me a good deal, and I wanted to know 
how the poor little fellow was so much that I would 
have gone to see if I had not been so far away. 
But it would be rather silly to hurry away twenty 
miles to look after one fly: so I finished my visit, 
and then went back to my room, hoping to find Buzz 
alive and well in spite of the cold. 

Alas, no! my little friend was gone. There he 
lay on his back on the mantel-piece, his legs meekly 
folded, and his wings stiff and still. He had evi¬ 
dently gone to the warm place, and been surprised 
when the heat died out and left him to freeze. My 
poor little Buzz had sung his last song, danced his 
last dance, and gone where the good flies go. I was 
very sorry, and buried him among the ivy roots, 

5 


66 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


where the moss lay green above him, the sun shone 
warmly on him, and the bitter cold could never 
come. I miss him very much ; when I sit writing, 
I miss his cheerful voice and busy wings; at meals 
there is no tidy little body to drink up spilt drops 
and eat the crumbs; in the evenings, when I sit 
alone, I want him more than ever, and every day as 
I water my plants, I say, softly, — 

“ Grow green, ivy, lie lightly, moss, shine warmly, 
sun, and make his last bed pleasant to my little 
friend.” 


THE CHILDREN’S JOKE. 


67 


THE CHILDREN’S JOKE. 

<t ‘"\7'OU can’t do this’ and ‘you mustn’t do that,’ 
*** from morning to night. Try it yourself and 
see how you’d like it,” muttered Harry, as he flung 
down his hat in sulky obedience to his father’s com¬ 
mand to give up a swim in the river and keep him¬ 
self cool with a book that warm summer evening. 

“ Of course I should like to mind my parents. 
Good children always do,” began Mr. Fairbairn, 
entirely forgetting the pranks of his boyhood, as 
people are apt to. 

“ Glad I didn’t know you then. Must have been 
a regular prig,” growled Harry under his breath. 

“ Silence, sir! go to your room, and don’t let me 
see you till tea-time. You must be taught respect 
as well as obedience,” and Mr. Fairbairn gave the 
table a rap that caused his son to retire precipi¬ 
tately. 


68 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


On the stairs he met his sister Kitty looking as 
cross as himself. 

“What’s the matter with you?” he asked, pausing 
a minute, for misery loves company. 

“ Mamma will make me dress up in a stiff clean 
frock, and have my hair curled over again, just 
because some one may come. I want to play in the 
garden, and I can’t all fussed up this way. I do 
hate company and clothes and manners, don’t you?” 
answered Kitty, with a spiteful pull at her sash. 

“ I hate being ordered round everlastingly, and 
badgered from morning till night. I’d just like to 
be let alone,” and Harry went on his way to cap¬ 
tivity with a grim shake of the head and a very 
strong desire to run away from home altogether. 

“ So would I, mamma is so fussy. I never have 
any peace of my life,” sighed Kitty, feeling that her 
lot was a hard one. 

The martyr in brown linen went up, and the other 
martyr in white cambric went down, both looking as 
they felt, rebellious and unhappy. Yet a stranger 
seeing them and their home would have thought 


THE CHILDREN'S JOKE. 


69 


they had every thing heart could desire. All the 
comforts that money could buy, and all the beauty 
that taste could give seemed gathered round them. 
Papa and mamma loved the two little people dearly, 
and no real care or sorrow came to trouble the lives 
that would have been all sunshine but for one thing. 
With the best intentions in the world, Mr. and Mrs. 
Fairbairn were spoiling their children by constant 
fault-finding, too many rules, and too little sympathy 
wdth the active young souls and bodies under their 
care. As Harry said, they were ordered about, cor¬ 
rected and fussed over from morning till night, and 
were getting so tired of it that the most desperate 
ideas began to enter their heads. 

Now, in the house was a quiet old maiden aunt, 
who saw the mischief brewing and tried to cure it 
by suggesting more liberty and less “ nagging,” as 
the boys call it. But Mr. and Mrs. F. always 
silenced her by saying, — 

“ My dear Betsey, you never had a family, so how 
can you know any thing about the proper manage 
ment of children ? ” 


70 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


They quite forgot that sister Betsey had brought 
up a flock of motherless brothers and sisters, and 
done it wisely and well, though she never got any 
thanks or praise for it, and never expected any for 
doing her duty faithfully. If it had not been for 
aunty, Harry and Kitty would have long ago carried 
out their favorite plan and have run away together, 
like Roland and May bird. She kept them from this 
foolish prank by all sorts of unsuspected means, and 
was their refuge in troublous times. For all her 
quiet ways, aunty was full of fun as well as sympa¬ 
thy and patience, and she smoothed the thorny road 
to virtue with the innocent and kindly little arts 
that make some people as useful and beloved as 
good fairy godmothers were once upon a time. 

As they sat at tea that evening papa and mamma 
were most affable and lively; but the children’s 
spirits were depressed by a long day of restraint, and 
they sat like well-bred mutes, languidly eating their 
supper. 

“ It’s the warm weather. They need something 
bracing. I’ll give them a dose of iron mixture to¬ 
morrow,” said mamma. 


THE CHILDREN'S JOKE. 


71 


“ I’ve taken enough now to make a cooking-stove,” 
groaned Kitty, who hated being dosed. 

“ If you’d let me go swimming every night I’d be 
all right,” added Harry. 

“Not another word on that point. I will not let 
you do it, for you will get drowned as sure as you 
try,” said mamma, who was so timid she had panics 
the minute her boy was out of sight. 

“ Aunt Betsey let her boys go, and they never 
came to grief,” began Harry. 

“ Aunt Betsey’s ideas and mine differ. Children 
are not brought up now as they were in her day,” 
answered mamma with a superior air. 

“I just wish they were. Jolly good times her 
boys had.” 

“ Yes, and girls too, playing any thing they liked, 
and not rigged up and plagued with company,” cried 
Kitty, with sudden interest. 

“ What do you mean by that?” asked papa, good- 
naturedly ; for somehow his youth returned to him 
for a minute, and seemed very pleasant. 

The children could not explain very well, but 
Harry said slowly,— 


72 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG 


“ If you were to be in our places for a day you^d 
see what we mean.” 

“ Wouldn’t it be worth your while to try the ex> 
periment ? ” said Aunt Betsey, with a smile. 

Papa and mamma laughed at the idea, but looked 
sober when aunty added, — 

“ Why not put yourselves in their places for a day 
and see how you like it ? I think you would under¬ 
stand the case better than any one could describe it, 
and perhaps do both yourselves and the children a 
lasting service.” 

“ Upon my word, that’s a droll idea! Wliat do 
you say to it, mamma?” and papa looked much 
amused. 

« 

“I am willing to try it if you are, just for the fun 
of the thing, but I don’t think it will do any good; ” 
and mamma shook her head as if Aunt Betsey’s 
plan was a wild one. 

The children sat quite speechless with surprise 
at this singular proposal, but as its full richness 
dawned upon them, they skipped in their chairs and 
clapped their hands delightedly. 


THE CHILDREN’S JOKE. 


73 


“ How do you propose to carry out this new edu¬ 
cational frolic?” asked papa, beginning to feel soma 
curiosity as to the part he was to play. 

“ Merely let the children do as they like for one 
day and have full power over you. Let them plan 
your duties and pleasures, order your food, fix your 
hours, and punish or reward you as they think 
proper. You must promise entire obedience, and 
keep the agreement till night.” 

“ Good! good! Oh, won’t it be fun! ” cried Harry 
and Kitty, applauding enthusiastically; while papa 
and mamma looked rather sober as the plan was 
developed before them. 

“ To-morrow is a holiday for us all, and we might 
celebrate it by this funny experiment. It will amuse 
us and do no harm, at any rate,” added aunty, quite 
in love with her new scheme. 

“ Very well, we will. Come, mamma, let us prom¬ 
ise, and see what these rogues will do for us. Play¬ 
ing father and mother is no joke, mind you; but you 
will have an easier time of it than we do, for we 
shall behave ourselves,” said papa, with a virtuous 
expression. 


74 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


Mamma agreed, and the supper ended merrily, for 
every one was full of curiosity as to the success of 
the new play. Harry and Kitty went to bed early, 
that they might be ready for the exciting labors of 
the next day. Aunt Betsey paid each a short visit 
before they slept, and it is supposed that she laid 
out the order of performances, and told each what 

s' 

to do; for the little people would never have thought 
of so many sly things if left to themselves. 

At seven, the next morning, as mamma was in 
her dressing-room, just putting on her cool, easy 
wrapper, in came Kitty with a solemn face, though 
her eyes danced with fun, as she said, — 

“ Careless, untidy girl! Put on a clean dress, do 
up your hair properly, and go and practise half an 
hour before breakfast.” 

At first mamma looked as if inclined to refuse, but 
Kitty was firm; and, with a sigh, mamma rustled into 
a stiff, scratchy, French print, took her hair out of the 
comfortable net, and braided it carefully up; then, 
instead of reading in her arm-chair, she was led to 
the parlor and set to learning a hard piece of 




music. 


THE CHILDREN’S JOKE. 


75 


c£ Can’t I have my early cup of tea and my roll ? ” 
she asked. 

“ Eating between meals is a very bad habit, and I 
can’t allow it,” said Kitty, in the tone her mother often 
used to her. “ I shall have a mug of new milk and 
a roll, because grown people need more nourishment 
than children;” and sitting down, she ate her early 
lunch with a relish, while poor mamma played away, 
feeling quite out of* tune herself. 

Harry found papa enjoying the last delightful 
dose that makes bed so fascinating of a morning. 
As if half afraid to try the experiment, the boy 
slowly approached and gave the sleeper a sudden, 
hard shake, saying briskly,— 

“ Come, come, come, lazy-bones! Get up, get up ! ” 

Papa started as if an earthquake had roused him, 
and stared at Harry, astonished for a minute, then 
he remembered, and upset Harry’s gravity by whin¬ 
ing out, — 

“ Come, you let me alone. It isn’t time yet, and 
I am so tired.” 

Harry took the joke, and assuming the stern air 
of his father on such occasions, said impressively, — 


76 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


“You have been called, and now if you are not 
down in fifteen minutes you won’t have any break¬ 
fast. Not a morsel, sir, not a morsel;” and, coolly 
pocketing his father’s watch, he retired, to giggle all 
the way downstairs. 

When the breakfast bell rang, mamma hurried 
into the dining-room, longing for her tea. But 
Kitty sat behind the urn, and said gravely,— 

“Go back, and enter the room properly. Will 
you never learn to behave like a lady?” 

Mamma looked impatient at the delay, and having 
re-entered in her most elegant manner, sat down, 
and passed her plate for fresh trout and muffins. 

“No fish or hot bread for you, my dear. Eat 
your good oatmeal porridge and milk; that is the 
proper food for children.” 

“ Can’t I have some tea ? ” cried mamma, in de¬ 
spair, for without it she felt quite lost. 

“ Certainly not. I never was allowed tea when a 
little girl, and couldn’t think of giving it to you,” 
said Kitty, filling a large cup for herself, and sipping 
the forbidden draught with a relish. 


THE CHILDREN’S JOKE. 


77 


Poor mamma quite groaned at this hard fate, but 
meekly obeyed, and ate the detested porridge, under¬ 
standing Kitty’s dislike to it at last. 

Harry, sitting in his father’s chair, read the paper, 
and ate every thing he could lay his hands on, with 
a funny assumption of his father’s morning manner. 
Aunt Betsey looked on much amused, and now and 
then nodded to the children as if she thought things 
were going nicely. 

Breakfast was half over when papa came in, and 
was about to take Harry’s place, when his son 
said, trying vainly to look grave as he showed the 
watch, — 

“What did I tell you, sir? You are late again, 
sir. No breakfast, sir. I’m sorry, but this habit 
must be broken up. Not a word; it’s your own 
fault, and you must bear the penalty.” 

“ Come, now, that’s hard on a fellow! I’m awful 
hungry. Can’t I have just a bite of something?” 
asked papa, quite taken aback at this stern decree. 

“ I said not a morsel, and I shall keep my word. 
Go to your morning duties, and let this be a lesson 
to you.” 


78 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAO. 


Papa cast a look at Aunt Betsey, that was both 
comic and pathetic, and departed without a word; 
but he felt a sudden sympathy with his son, who 
had often been sent fasting from the table for some 
small offence. 

Now it was that he appreciated aunty’s kind 
heart, and felt quite fond of her, for in a few min¬ 
utes she came to him, as he raked the gravel walk 
(Harry’s duty every day), and slipping a nice, warm, 
well-buttered muffin into his hand, said, in her 
motherly way,— 

“ My dear, do try and please your father. He is 
right about late rising, but I can’t bear to see you 
starve.” 

“ Betsey, you are an angel! ” and turning his back 
to the house, papa bolted the muffin with grateful 
rapidity, inquiring, with a laugh, “ Do you think 
those rogues will keep it up in tills vigorous style 
all day ? ” 

“I trust so; it isn’t a bit overdone. Hope you 
like it,” and Aunt Betsey walked away, looking 
as if she enjoyed it extremely. 


THE CHILDREN'S JOKE. 


79 


“Now put on your hat and draw baby up and 
down the avenue for half an hour. Don’t go on the 
grass or you will wet your feet; and don’t play with 
baby, I want her to go to sleep; and don’t talk to 
papa or he will neglect his work,” said Kitty, as 
they rose from table. 

Now it was a warm morning and baby was heavy 
and the avenue was dull, and mamma much pre^ 
ferred to stay in the house and sew the trimming 
on to a new and pretty dress. 

“ Must I really ? Ivitty you are a hard-hearted 
mamma to make me do it,” and Mrs. Fairbairn 
hoped her play-parent would relent. 

But she did not, and only answered with a mean¬ 
ing look, — 

“ I have to do it every day and you don’t let me 
off.” 

Mamma said no more, but put on her hat and 
trundled away with fretful baby, thinking to find 
her fellow-sufferer and have a laugh over the joke. 
She was disapj)ointed, however, for Harry called 
papa away to weed the lettuce-bed, and then shut 


80 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


him up in the study to get his lessons, while he 
mounted the pony and trotted away to town to buy 
a new fishing-rod and otherwise enjoy himself. 

When mamma came in, hot and tired, she was met 
by Kitty with a bottle in one hand and a spoon in 
the other. 

“ Here is your iron mixture, dear. Now take it 
like a good girl.” 

“ I won’t! ” and mamma looked quite stubborn. 

“Then aunty will hold your hands and I shall 
make you.” 

“But I don’t like it; I don’t need it,” cried 
mamma. 

“ Neither do I, but you give it to me all the same. 
I’m sure you need strengthening more than I do, 
you have so many 4 trials,’ ” and Kitty looked very 
sly as she quoted one of the words often on her 
mother’s lips. 

“You’d better mind, Carrie; it can’t hurt you, 
and you know you promised entire obedience. Set 
a good example,” said aunty. 

“ But I never thought these little chits would do 


THE CHILDREN’S JOKE. 


81 


so well. Ugh, how disagreeable it is! ” And 
mamma took her dose with a wry face, feeling that 
Aunt Betsey was siding with the wrong party. 

“Now sit down and hem these towels till dinner¬ 
time. I have so much to do I don’t know which 
way to turn,” continued Kitty, much elated with her 
success. 

Rest of any sort was welcome, so mamma sewed 
busily till callers came. They happened to be some 
little friends of Kitty’s, and she went to them in the 
parlor, telling mamma to go up to nurse and have 
her hair brushed and her dress changed, and then 
come and see the guests. While she was away 
Kitty told the girls the joke they were having, and 
begged them to help her carry it out. They agreed, 
being ready for fun and not at all afraid of Mrs. 
Fairbairn. So when she came in they all began to 
kiss and cuddle and praise and pass her round as if 
she was a doll, to her great discomfort and the great 
amusement of the little girls. 

While this was going on in the drawing-room, 
Harry was tutoring his father in the study, and put- 

6 


82 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


ting that poor gentleman through a course of ques¬ 
tions that nearly drove him distracted; for Harry 
got out the hardest books he could find, and selected 
the most puzzling subjects. A dusty old history 
was rummaged out also, and classical researches fol¬ 
lowed in which papa’s memory played him false 
more than once, calling forth rebukes from his severe 
young tutor. But he came to open disgrace over 
his mathematics, for he had no head for figures, and 
not being a business man, had not troubled himself 
about the matter, so Harry, who was in fine practice, 
utterly routed him in mental arithmetic by giving 
him regular puzzlers, and when he got stuck offered 
no help, but shook his head and called him a stupid 
fellow. 

The dinner-bell released the exhausted student, 
and he gladly took his son’s place, looking as if he 
had been hard at work. He was faint with hunger, 
but was helped last, being “ only a boy,” and then 
checked every five minutes for eating too fast. 
Mamma was very meek, and only looked wistfully at 
the pie when told in her own words that pastry was 
bad for children. 


THE CHILDREN’S JOKE. 


83 


Any attempts at conversation were promptly 
quenched by the worn-out old saying, “ Children 
should be seen, not heard,” while Harry and Kitty 
chattered all dinner-time, and enjoyed it to their 
heart’s content, especially the frequent pecks at 
their great children, who, to be even with them, 
imitated all their tricks as well as they could. 

“ Don’t whistle at table, papa; ” “ keep your hands 
still, mamma ; ” “ wait till you are helped, sir; ” 
“tuck your napkin well in, and don’t spill your 
soup, Caroline.” 

Aunt Betsey laughed till her eyes were full, and 
they had a jolly time, though the little people had 
the best of it, for the others obeyed them in spite of 
their dislike to the new rules. 

“Now you may play for two hours,” was the gra¬ 
cious order issued as they rose from table. 

Mamma fell upon a sofa exhausted, and papa hur¬ 
ried to read his paper in the shady garden. 

Usually these hours of apparent freedom were 
spoilt by constant calls, — not to run, not to play this 
or that, or frequent calls to do errands. The chil- 


84 


AUNT JUS SCRAP-BAG. 


dren had mercy, however, and left them in peace; 
which was a wise move on the whole, for the poor 
souls found rest so agreeable they privately resolved 
to let the children alone in their play-hours. 

“ Can I go over and see Mr. Hammond ? ” asked 
papa, wishing to use up the last half-hour of his 
time by a neighborly call. 

“No; I don’t like Tommy Hammond, so I don’t 
wish you to play with his father,” said Harry, with 
a sly twinkle of the eye, as he turned the tables on 
his papa. 

Mr. Fairbairn gave a low whistle and retired to 
the barn, where Harry followed him, and ordered 
the man to harness up old Bill. 

“ Going to drive, sir ? ” asked papa, respectfully. 

“Don’t ask questions,” was all the answer he 
got. 

Old Bill was put into the best buggy and driven 
to the hall door. Papa followed, and mamma sprang 
up from her nap, ready for her afternoon drive. 

“ Can’t I go ? ” she asked, as Kitty came down in 
her new hat and gloves. 


THE CHILDREN’S JOKE. 


85 


“No; there isn’t room.” 

“ Why not have the carryall, and let us go, too, 
we like it so much,” said papa, in the pleading tone 
Harry often used. 

Kitty was about to consent, for she loved mamma, 
and found it hard to cross her so. But Harry was 
made of sterner stuff; his wrongs still burned within 
him, and he said impatiently, — 

w We can’t be troubled with you. The buggy is 
nicest and lightest, and we want to talk over our 
affairs. You, my son, can help John turn the hay 
on the lawn, and Caroline can amuse baby, or help 
Jane with the preserves. Little girls should be 
domestic.” 

“ Oh, thunder! ” growled papa. 

“ Aunt Betsey taught you that speech, you saucy 
boy,” cried mamma, as the children drove off in high 
glee, leaving their parents to the distasteful tasks set 
them. 

Mrs. Fairbairn wanted to read, but baby was fret¬ 
ful, and there was no Kitty to turn him over to, so 
she spent her afternoon amusing the small tyrant, 
while papa made hay in the sun and didn’t like it. 


86 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


Just at tea-time the children came home, full of 
the charms of their drive, but did not take the 
trouble to tell much about it to the stay-at-home 
people. Bread and milk was all they allowed their 
victims, while they revelled in marmalade and cake, 
fruit and tea. 

“ I expect company this evening, but I don’t wish 
you to sit up, Caroline; you are too young, and late 
hours are bad for your eyes. Go to bed, and don’t 
forget to brush your hair and teeth well, five min¬ 
utes for each; cold cream your hands, fold your rib¬ 
bons, hang up your clothes, put out your boots to be 
cleaned, and put in the mosquito bars; I will come 
and take away the light when I am dressed.” 

Kitty delivered this dread command with effect, 
for she had heard and cried over it too often not to 
have it quite by heart. 

“ But I can’t go to bed at half-past seven o’clock 
of a summer night! I’m not sleepy, and this is just 
the pleasantest time of the whole day,” said mamma, 
thinking her bargain a hard one. 

“Go up directly, my daughter, and don’t discuss 


THE CHILDREN’S JOKE. 


87 


the matter; I know what is best for you,” and Kitty 
sent social, wide-awake mamma to bed, there to 
lie thinking soberly till Mrs. Kit came for the 
lamp. 

“ Have you had a happy day, love ? ”she asked, 
bending over the pillow, as her mother used to do. 

“ No, ma’am.” 

“ Then it was your own fault, my child. Obey 
your parents in all things, and you will be both good 
and happy.” 

“ That depends ” — began mamma, but stopped 
short, remembering that to-morrow she would be on 
the other side, and any thing she might say now 
would be quoted against her. 

But Kitty understood, and her heart melted as 
she hugged her mother and said in her own caress¬ 
ing way, — 

“ Poor little mamma! did she have a hard time ? 
and didn’t she like being a good girl and minding 
her parents ? ” 

Mamma laughed also, and held Kitty close, but all 
she said was, — 


88 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


“ Good-night, dear; don’t be troubled : it will be 
all right to-morrow.” 

“I hope so,” and with a hearty kiss, Kitty went 
thoughtfully downstairs to meet several little friends 
whom she had asked to spend the evening with her. 

As the ladies left the room, papa leaned back and 
prepared to smoke a cigar, feeling that he needed 
the comfort of it after this trying day. But Harry 
was down upon him at once. 

“ A very bad habit, — can’t allow it. Throw that 
dirty thing away, and go and get your Latin lesson 
for to-morrow. The study is quiet, and we want this 
room.” 

“But I am tired. I can’t study at night. Let 
me off till to-morrow, please, sir!” begged papa 
who had not looked at Latin since he left school. 

“Hot a word, sir! I shall listen to no excuses, and 
shall not let you neglect your education on any ac¬ 
count,” and Harry slapped the table a la papa in the 
most impressive manner. 

Mr. Fairbairn went away into the dull study and 
made believe do his lesson, but he really smoked and 
meditated. 


THE CHILDREN’S JOKE. 


89 


The young folks had a grand revel, and kept it up 
till ten o’clock, while mamma lay awake, longing to 
go down and see what they were about, and papa 
shortly fell asleep, quite exhausted by the society of 
a Latin Grammar. 

“Idle boy, is this the way you study?” said 
Harry, audaciously tweaking him by the ear. 

“ No, it’s the way you do; ” and feeling that his day 
of bondage was over, papa cast off his allegiance, 
tucked a child under each arm, and marched up¬ 
stairs with them, kicking and screaming. Setting 
them down at the nursery door, he said, shaking his 
finger at them in an awful manner, — 

“ Wait a bit, you rascals, and see what you will get 
to-morrow.” 

With this dark threat he vanished into his own 
room, and a minute after a great burst of laughter 
set their fears at rest. 

“ It was a fair bargain, so I’m not afraid,” said 
Harry stoutly. 

“ He kissed us good-night though he did glower 
at us, so I guess it was only fun,” added Kitty. 


90 


AUNT JO'S SCRAP-BAG. 


“ Hasn’t it been a funny day ? ” asked Harry. 

“Don’t tliink I quite like it, every thing is so 
turned round,” said Kitty. 

“ Guess they didn’t like it very well. Hear ’em 
talking in there; ” and Harry held ujd his finger, for a 
steady murmur of conversation had followed the 
laughter in papa and mamma’s room. 

“I wonder if our joke will do any good?” said 
Kitty thoughtfully. 

“Wait and see,” answered Aunt Betsey, popping 
her night-capped head out of her room with a nod 
and a smile that sent them to bed full of hope for 
the future. 


DANDELION. 


91 


DANDELION. 

jNOWN by the sea lived Ben the fisherman, with 
his wife, and little son, who was called Dande¬ 
lion, because he wore yellow pinafores, and had 
curly, yellow hair, that covered his head with a 
golden fuzz. A very happy family, for Ben was 
kind and industrious, Hetty, his wife, a cheerful, 
busy creature, and Dandelion the joiliest tliree-year- 
old baby w T ho ever made sand-pies and paddled on 
the beach. 

But one day a great trouble came to them. Ben 
and his fellow-fishermen sailed blithely away as 
usual, and Hetty watched the fleet of white-winged 
boats out of the bay, thinking how pretty they 
looked with the sunshine on them; while Dandelion 
stood clapping his chubby hands, and saying, as he 
always did, ** Daddy tummin’ soon.” But Daddy 
did not come soon that time; for a great storm 


92 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


arose, and when some of the boats came scudding 
home at nightfall, Ben’s was not among them. 
All night the gale raged, and in the morning, Ben’s 
boat lay empty and broken on the shore. His mates 
shook their heads when they saw the wreck, and 
drew their rough hands over their eyes; for Ben 
was a good seaman, and they knew he never would 
desert his boat alive. They looked for him far and 
wide, but could hear nothing of him, and felt sure 
that he had perished in the storm. They tried to 
comfort poor Hetty, but she would not be comforted. 
Her heart seemed broken; and if it had not been for 
her baby, her neighbors feared that she would have 
gone to join Ben in his grave under the sea. Dan¬ 
delion didn’t understand why every one was so sad, 
and why his father stayed away so long; but he 
never lost his cheerfulness, never gave up hoping, of 
stopped saying, with a contented smile, “Daddy 
tummin’ soon.” The sunshiny little face was Hetty’s 
only comfort. The sight of the fuzzy yellow head, 
bobbing round the house, alone made it endurable; 
and the touch of the loving baby hands kept her 


DANDELION. 


93 


from the despair which made her long to end her 
sorrow in the sea. 

People don’t believe in fairies now-a-days; never¬ 
theless, good spirits still exist, and help us in our 
times of trouble, better even than the little people 
we used to read about. One of these household 
spirits is called Love, and it took the shape of Dan¬ 
delion, to comfort poor Hetty. Another is called 
Labor: a beautiful, happy spirit this is, and it did its 
part so well that there was little time for bitter 
thoughts or vain regrets; for Hetty’s spinning-wheel 
must go, in order to earn bread for Dandelion, whose 
mouth was always ready for food, like a hungry 
bird’s. Busily hummed the wheel; and, as it flew, 
it seemed to catch an echo of the baby’s cheerful 
song, saying, over and over, “Daddy tumrnin’ soon,” 
till Hetty stopped crying as she worked, and listened 
to the cheerful whirr. “Yes, I shall see my good 
Ben again, if I wait patiently. Baby takes comfort 
in saying that, and I will, too; though the poor dear 
will get tired of it soon,” she said. 

But Dandelion didn’t get tired. He firmly be- 


94 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


lieved what he said, and nothing could change his 
mind. He had been much troubled at seeing the 
boat laid up on the beach, all broken and disman¬ 
tled, but his little mind couldn’t take in the idea of 
shipwreck and death; so, after thinking it over, he 
decided that Daddy was waiting somewhere for a 
new boat to be sent to bring him home. This idea 
was so strong that the child gathered together his 
store of toy-boats, — for he had many, as they were 
his favorite plaything, — and launched them, one 
after another, telling them to find his father, and 
bring him home. 

As Dandelion was not allowed to play on the 
beach, except at low tide, the little boats sailed safely 
away on the receding waves, and the child was sure 
that some of them would get safely into the distant 
port where Daddy was waiting. All the boats were 
launched at last, all sailed bravely away; but none 
came back, and little Dandy was much disappointed. 
He babbled about it to himself; told the peeps and 
the horse-shoes, the snails and the lobsters, of his 
trouble; begged the gulls to fly away and find 


DANDELION. 


95 


Daddy; and every windy night, when the sea dashed 
on the shore and the shutters rattled, he would want 
the lamp put in the window, as it used to be when 
they expected Ben, and tried to make home look 
cheerful, even before he got there. 

Hetty used to humor the child, though it made 
her heart ache to know that the light shone in vain. 
At such times Dandy would prance about the room 
in his little shirt, and talk about Daddy as happily 
as if long months had not passed without bringing 
him back. When fairly in his big, old-fashioned 
cradle, the boy would lie, looking more like a dande¬ 
lion than ever, in his yellow flannel night-gown, 
playing with his toes, or rocking himself to and fro, 
calling the cradle his boat, and blithely telling his 
mother that he was sailing “ far way to find 
Daddy.” When tired of play, he lay still, and asked 
her to sing to him. She had no heart for the gay 
old sea-songs she used to sing for lullabies; so she 
sung hymns in her soft, motherly voice, till the blue 
eyes closed and the golden head lay still, looking so 
pretty, with the circle of bright hair above the rosy 


96 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


face. “My little saint,” Hetty called him; and 
though she often wept sadly as she watched him, 
the bitterness of her grief passed away, and a patient 
hope came to her ; for the child’s firm faith impressed 
her deeply, the pious music of the sweet old hymns 
comforted her sore heart, and daily labor kept her 
cheerful, in spite of herself. The neighbors won¬ 
dered at the change that came over her, but she 
could not explain it; and no one knew that the 
three good spirits, called Love, Labor, and Hope, 
were working their pleasant miracles. 

Six long months went by, and no one ever thought 
of seeing Ben again, — no one but his little son, who 
still watched for him here, and his wife, who waited 
to meet him hereafter. 

One bright spring day something happened. The 
house was as tidy as ever; the wheel hummed 
briskly as Hetty sung softly to herself with a cheer¬ 
ful face, though there were white hairs among the 
brown, and her eyes had a thoughtful, absent look 
at times. Dandelion, more chubby and cheery than 
ever, sat at her feet, with the sunshine making a 


DANDELION. 


97 


golden glory of his yellow hair, as he tried his new 
boat in the tub of water his mother kept for her 
little sailor, or tugged away with his fat fingers at 
a big needle which he was trying to pull through 
a bit of cloth intended for a sail. The faithful little 
soul had not forgotten his father, but had come to 
the conclusion that the reason his boats never pros¬ 
pered was because they hadn’t large enough sails; 
so he was intent on rigging a new boat lately given 
him, with a sail that could not fail to waft Ben 
safely home. With his mouth puckered up, his 
downy eyebrows knit, and both hands pulling at the 
big needle, he was so wrapped in his work that he did 
not mind the stopping of the wheel when Hetty fell 
into a reverie, thinking of the happy time when 
she and Ben should meet again. Sitting so, neither 
heard a step come softly over the sand; neither 
saw an eager, brown face peer in at the door; and 
neither knew, for a minute, that Ben was watching 
them, with a love and longing in his heart that 
made him tremble like a woman. 

Dandelion saw him first; for, as he pulled the 

7 


98 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


thread through with a triumphant jerk, the small 
sailmaker lost his balance, tumbled over, and lay 
staring up at the tall man with his blue eyes so wide 
open, they looked as if they would never shut again. 
All of a sudden, he shouted, with a joyful shout, 
“Daddy’s tummin’!” and the next instant, van¬ 
ished, ship and all, in the arms of the man who 
wore the rough jacket. Over went the spinning- 
wheel, as Hetty vanished likewise; and for a time 
there was nothing but sobbing and kissing, cling¬ 
ing, and thanking Heaven for its kindness to them. 
When they grew quieter, and Ben got into his old 
chair, with his wife on one knee and his boy on the 
other, he told them how he was wrecked in the gale, 
picked up by an outward-bound ship, and only able 
to get back after months of sickness and delay. 

“ My boaty fetched him,” said Dandelion, feeling 
that every thing had turned out just as he expected. 

“So it did, my precious; leastways, your faith 
helped, I haven’t a doubt,” cried Hetty, hugging the 
curly-headed prophet close, as she told Ben all that 
had happened. 


DANDELION. 


99 


Ben didn’t say much, but a few great tears rolled 
down the rough blue jacket, as he looked from the 
queer sail with its two big stitches to the little son, 
whose love, he firmly believed, had kept him safe 
through many dangers, and brought him home at 
last. 

When the fine new boat was built, no one thought 
it strange that Ben named it “ Dandelion; ” no one 
laughed at the little sail which always hung over 
the fire-place in the small house; and long years 
after, when Ben was an old man, and sat by the 
door with his grandchildren on his knee, the story 
which always pleased them best was that which 
ended with the funny words, “Daddy tuinmin 
soon.” 


L.ofC. 


100 


AUNT JUS SCRAP-BAG. 


MADAM CLUCK, AND HER FAMILY. 
HERE never was a prouder mamma than 



Madam Cluck when she led forth her family 
of eight downy little chicks. Chanticleer, Strut, 
Snowball, Speckle, Peep, Peck, Downy, and Blot 
were their names; and no sooner were they out of 
the shell than they began to chirp and scratch as 
gayly as if the big world in which they suddenly 
found themselves was made for their especial benefit. 
It was a fine brood-; but poor Madam Cluck had bad 
luck with her chicks, for they were her first, and she 
didn’t know how to manage them. Old Aunt Cockle- 
top told her that she didn’t, and predicted that “ those 
poor dears would come to bad ends.” 

Aunt Cockletop was right, as } t ou will see, when 
I have told the sad historv of this unfortunate 

t/ 

family. The tragedy began with Chanty, who was 
the boldest little cockadoodle who ever tried to crow« 


MADAM CLUCK, AND HER FAMILY. 101 


Before he had a feather to his bit of a tail, Chanty 
began to fight, and soon was known as the most 
quarrelsome chick in the farm-yard. Having picked 
his brothers and sisters, he tried to do the same to 
his playmates, the ducklings, goslings, and young 
turkeys, and was so disagreeable that all the fowls 
hated him. One day, a pair of bantams arrived, — 
pretty little white birds, with red crests and nice 
yellow feet. Chanty thought he could beat Mr. 
Bantam easily, he was so small, and invited him to 
fight. Mr. B. declined. Then Chanty called him a 
coward, and gave Mrs. B. a peck, which so enraged 
her spouse that he flew at Chanty like a game-cock, 
and a dreadful fight followed, which ended in Chan¬ 
ty’s utter defeat, for he died from his wounds. 

Downy and Snowball soon followed; for the two 
sweet little things would swing on the burdock-leaves 
that grew over the brook. Sitting side by side, the 
plump sisters were placidly swaying up and down 
over the clear brown water rippling below, when — 
ah ! sad to relate — the stem broke, and down went 
leaf, chickens and all, to a watery death. 


102 


AUNT JO'S SCRAP-BAG. 


“ I’m the most unlucky hen ever hatched! ” groaned 
poor Madam Cluck; and it did seem so, for the very 
next week, Speckle, the best and prettiest of the 
brood, went to walk with Aunt Cockletop, “ grass- 
hoppering” they called it, in the great field across 
the road. What a nice time Speckle did have, to be 
sure; for the grasshoppers were lively and fat, and 
aunt was in an unusually amiable mood. 

“Never run away from any thing, but face danger 
and conquer it, like a brave chick,” said the old 
biddy, as she went clucking through the grass, with 
her gray turban wagging in the wind. Speckle had 
hopped away from a toad with a startled chirp, 
which caused aunt to utter that remark. The words 
had hardly left her beak, when a shadow above 
made her look up, give one loud croak of alarm, and 
then scuttle away, as fast as legs and wings could 
carry her. 

Little Speckle, remembering the advice, and un¬ 
conscious of the danger, stood her ground as a great 
hawk came circling nearer and nearer, till, with a 
sudden dart, he pounced on the poor chicken, and 


MADAM CLUCK , AND HER FAMILY. 103 


bore it away chirping dismally, “Aunty told me 
not to run. Oh, dear! oh, dear! What shall I 
do?” 

It was a dreadful blow to Mrs. Cluck ; and Aunt 
Cockletop didn’t show herself for a whole day after 
that story was known, for every fowl in the yard 
twitted her with the difference between her preach¬ 
ing and her practice. 

Strut, the other son, was the vainest chick ever 
seen; and the great aim of his life was to crow 
louder than any other cock in the neighborhood. 
He was at it from morning till night, and every one 
was tired to death of hearing his shrill, small voice 
making funny attempts to produce hoarse little crows, 
as he sat on the wall and stretched his yellow neck, 
till his throat quite ached with the effort. 

“ Ah! if I could only fly to the highest beam in 
the barn, and give a splendid crow that every one 
could hear, I should be perfectly happy,” said this 
silly little fowl, as he stared up at the loft where the 
old cock often sat. 

So he tried every day to fly and crow, and at last 


104 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


managed to get up; then how he did strut and rus¬ 
tle his feathers, while his playmates sat below and 
watched him. 

“You’ll fall and get hurt,” said his sister Blot. 

“Hold your tongue, you ugly little thing, and 
don’t talk to me. I’m going to crow, and can’t be 
interrupted by any silly bit of a hen. Be quiet, 
down there, and hear if I can’t do it as well as 
daddy.” 

The chicks stopj^ed scratching and peeping, and 
sat in a row to hear Strut crow. Perching himself 
on the beam, he tried his best, but only a droll 
“ cock-a-doodle-doo ” came of it, and all the chicks 
laughed. That made Strut mad, and he resolved to 
crow, even if he killed himself doing it. He gave 
an angry cluck, flapped his wings, and tried again. 
Alas, alas, for poor Strut! he leaned so far forward 
in his frantic effort to get a big crow out, that he 
toppled over and fell bump on the hard barn-floor, 
killing himself instantly. 

For some time after this, Mrs. Cluck kept her three 
remaining little ones close to her side, watching over 


MADAM CLUCK , AND HER FAMILY. 105 


them with maternal care, till they were heartily tired 
of her anxious duckings. Peep and Peck were 
alwa} T s together, being very fond of one another. 
Peep was a most inquisitive chicken, poking her 
head into every nook and corner, and never satisfied 
till she had seen all there was to see. Peck was a 
glutton, eating everything she could find, and often 
making herself ill by gobbling too fast, and forget- 
ting to eat a little gravel to help digest her food. 

“Don’t go out of the barn, children. Pm going 
to lay an egg, and can’t look after you just now,” 
said their mother one day. 

“ Yes, ma’am,” chirped the chickens ; and then, as 
she went rustling into the hay-mow, they began to 
run about and enjoy themselves with all their might. 
Peep found a little hole into the meal-room, and 
slipped in, full of joy at the sight of the bags, boxes, 
and bins. “I’ll eat all I want, and then I’ll call 
Peck,” she said; and having taken a taste of every 
thing, she was about to leave, when she heard the 
stable-man coming, and in her fright couldn’t find 
the hole, so flew into the meal-bin and hid herself. 


106 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


Sam never saw her, but shut down the cover of the 
bin as he passed, and left poor Peep to die. No one 
knew what had become of her till some days later, 
when she was found dead in the meal, with her poor 
little claws sticking straight up, as if imploring help. 
Peck, meanwhile, got into mischief also; for, in her 
hunt for something good to eat, she strayed into the 
slieep-shed, and finding some salt, ate as much as 
she liked, not knowing that salt is bad for hens. 
Having taken all she wanted, she ran back to the 
barn, and was innocently catching gnats when her 
mamma came out of the hay-mow, with a loud 
“ Cut-cut-cut-ca-dar-cut! ” 

“ Where is Peep ? ” asked Mrs. Cluck. 

“ Don’t know, ma. She ” — there Peck stopped 
suddenly, rolled up her eyes, and began to stagger 
about as if she was tipsy. 

“ Mercy on us! What’s the matter with the 
chick ? ” cried Mrs. Cluck, in great alarm. 

“ Fits, ma’am,” answered Doctor Drake, who just 
then waddled by. 

“ Oh! what can I do ? ” screamed the distracted 
hen. 


MADAM CLUCK, AND HER FAMILY. 107 


“ Nothing, ma’am; it’s fatal.” And the doctor 
waddled on to visit Dame Partlet’s son, who was ill 
of the pip. 

“ My child, my child! don’t flap and stagger so! 
Let me hold you! Taste this mint-leaf! Have a 
drop of water! What shall I do ? ” 

As poor Mrs. Cluck sighed and sobbed, her un¬ 
happy child went scuffling about on her back, gasp¬ 
ing and rolling up her eyes in great anguish, for she 
had eaten too much of the fatal salt, and there was 
no help for her. When all was over, they buried 
the dead chicken under a currant-bush, covered the 
little grave with chickweed, and the bereaved parent 
wore a black string round her leg for a month. 

Blot, “ the last of that bright band,” needed no 
mourning, for she was as black as a crow. This was 
the reason why her mother never had loved her as 
much as she did the others, who were all white, gray, 
or yellow. Poor little Blot had been much neglected 
by every one; but now her lonely mamma discov¬ 
ered how good and affectionate a chicken she was, 
for Blot was a great comfort to her, never running 


108 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


away or disobeying in any way, but always close to 
her side, ready*to creep under her wing, or bring her 
a plump bug when the poor biddy’s appetite failed 
her. They were very happy together till Thanks¬ 
giving drew near, when a dreadful pestilence seemed 
to sweep through the farm-yard; for turkeys, hens, 
ducks, and geese fell a prey to it, and were seen by 
their surviving relatives, featherless, pale, and stiff, 
borne away to some unknown place whence no fowl 
returned. Blot was waked one night by a great 
cackling and fluttering in the hen-house, and peeping 
down from her perch, saw a great hand glide along 
the roost, clutch her beloved mother by the leg, and 
pull her off, screaming dolefully, “ Good-by, good- 
by, my darling child ! ” 

Aunt Cockletop pecked and croaked fiercely; 
but, tough as she was, the old biddy did not escape, 
and many another amiable hen and gallant cocka- 
doodle fell a victim to that mysterious hand. In 
the morning few remained, and Blot felt that she 
was a forlorn orphan, a thought which caused her to 
sit with her head under her wing for several hours, 


MADAM CLUCK , AND HER FAMILY. 109 


brooding over her sad lot, and longing to join her 
family in some safe and happy land, where fowls live 
in peace. She had her wish very soon, for one day, 
when the first snowflakes began to flutter out of the 
cold, gray sky, Blot saw a little kitten mewing piti¬ 
fully as it sat under the fence. 

“ What is the matter, dear ? ” asked kind Blot. 

u I’m lost, and I can’t find my way home,” answered 
the kitten, shivering with cold. “ I live at the red 
farm-house over the hill, only I don’t know which 
road to take.” 

“ I’ll show you. Come at once, for night is 
coming on, and the snow will soon be too deep for 
us,” said Blot. 

So away they went, as fast as their small legs 
could carry them; but it was a long way, and dusk 
came on before the red farm-house appeared. 

“Now I’m safe; thank you very much. Won’t 
you come in, and stay all night ? My mother will 
be glad to see you,” said the kit, rubbing her soft 
white face against Blot’s little black breast. 

“ It’s against the rule to stay out all night, and I 


110 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


promised to be in early; so, good-by, dear.” And 
off trotted Blot along the snowy road, hoping to get 
home before the hen-house door was shut. Faster 
and faster fell the snow, darker and darker grew the 
night, and colder and colder became poor Blot’s 
little feet as she waded through the drifts. The 
firelight was shining out into the gloom, as the half- 
frozen chicken came into the yard, to find all doors 
shut, and no shelter left for her but the bough of a 
leafless tree. Too stiff and weak to fly up, she crept 
as close as possible to the bright glow which shone 
across the door-step, and with a shiver put her little 
head under her wing, trying to forget hunger, weari¬ 
ness, and the bitter cold, and wait patiently for 
morning. But when morning came, little Blot lay 
frozen stiff under a coverlet of snow; and the 
tender-hearted children sighed as they dug a grave 
for the last of the unfortunate family of the Clucks. 


A CURIOUS CALL. 


Ill 


A CURIOUS CALL. 

T HAVE often wondered what the various statues 
■*" standing about the city think of all day, and 
what criticisms they would make upon us and our 
doings, if they could speak. I frequently stop and 
stare at them, wondering if they don’t feel lonely; 
if they wouldn’t be glad of a nod as wc go by; and 
I always long to offer my umbrella to shield their 
uncovered heads on a rainy day, especially to good 
Ben Franklin, when the snow lies white on his 
benevolent forehead. I was always fond of this old 
gentleman; and one of my favorite stories when a 
little girl, was that of his early life, and the time 
when he was so poor he walked about Philadelphia 
with a roll of bread under each arm, eating a third 
as he went. I never pass without giving him a 
respectful look, and wishing he could know how 
grateful I am for all he had done in the printing 


112 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


line; for, without types and presses, where would 
the books be? 

Well, I never imagined that he understood why 
the tall woman in the big bonnet stared at him; but 
he did, and he liked it, and managed to let me know 
it in a very curious manner, as you shall hear. 

As I look out, the first thing I see is the great gilt 
eagle on the City-Hall dome. There he sits, with 
open wings, all day long, looking down on the peo¬ 
ple, who must appear like ants scampering busily to 
and fro about an ant-hill. The sun shines on him 
splendidly in the morning; the gay flag waves and 
rustles in the wind above him sometimes; and the 
moonlight turns him to silver when she comes glit¬ 
tering up the sky. When it rains, he never shakes 
his feathers; snow beats on him without disturbing 
his stately repose; and he never puts his head under 
his wing at night, but keeps guard in darkness as in 
day, like a faithful sentinel. I like the big, lonely 
bird, call him my particular fowl, and often wish 
he’d turn his head and speak to me. One night he 
did actually do it, or seemed to; for I’ve never been 


A CURIOUS CALL. 


113 


able to decide whether I dreamed what I’m going 
to tell you, or whether it really happened. 

It was a stormy night; and, as I drew down my 
curtain, I said to myself, after peering through the 
driving snow to catch a glimpse of my neighbor, 
“ Poor Goldy! he’ll have a rough time of it. I hope 
this northeaster won’t blow him off his perch.” 
Then I sat down by my fire, took my knitting, and 
began to meditate. I’m sure I didn’t fall asleep; 
but I can’t jwove it, so we’ll say no more about 
it. All at once there came a tap at my door, as I 
thought; and I said “ Come in,” just as Mr. Poe did 
when that unpleasant raven paid him a call. No 
one came, so I went to see who it was. Not a sign 
of a human soul in the long hall, only little Jessie, 
the poodle, asleep on her mat. Down I sat; but in 
a minute the tap came again; this time so loud that 
I knew it was at the window, and went to open it, 
thinking that one of my doves wanted to come in 
perhaps. Up went the sash, and in bounced some¬ 
thing so big and so bright that it dazzled and 
scared me. 


8 


114 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


“ Don’t be frightened, ma’am; it’s only me,” said 
a hoarse voice. So I collected my wits, rubbed my 
eyes, and looked at my visitor. It was the gold 
eagle off the City Hall! I don’t expect to be be¬ 
lieved ; but I wish you’d been here to see, for I give 
you my word, it was a sight to behold. How he 
ever got in at such a small window I can’t tell; but 
there he was, strutting majestically up and down 
the room, his golden plumage rustling, and his keen 
eyes flashing as he walked. I really didn’t know 
what to do. I couldn’t imagine what he came for; 
I had my doubts about the propriety of offering 
him a chair \ and he was so much bigger than I ex¬ 
pected that 1 was afraid he might fly away with me, 
as the roc did with Sinbad; so I did nothing but 
sidle to the door, ready to whisk out, if my strange 
guest appeared to be peckislily inclined. My re¬ 
spectful silence seemed to suit him; for, after a turn 
or two, he paused, nodded gravely, and said affably, 
a Good-evening, ma’am. I stepped over to bring 
you old Ben’s respects, and to see how you were 
getting on.” 


A CURIOUS CALL. 


115 


<c I’m very much obliged, sir. May I inquire who 
Mr. Old-Ben is ? I’m afraid I haven’t the honor of 
his acquaintance.” 

“Yes, you have; it’s Ben Franklin, of City-IIall 
yard. You know him; and he wished me to thank 
you for your interest in him.” 

“ Dear me ! how very odd! Will you sit down, 
sir?” 

“Never sit! I’ll perch here; ” and the great fowl 
took his accustomed attitude just in front of the 
fire, looking so very splendid that I couldn’t keep 
my eyes off of him. 

“Ah! you often do that. Never mind; I rather 
like it,” said the eagle, graciously, as he turned his 
brilliant eye upon me. I was rather abashed; but 
being very curious, I ventured to ask a few ques¬ 
tions, as he seemed in a friendly mood. 

“ Being a woman, sir, I’m naturally of an inquir¬ 
ing turn; and I must confess that I have a strong 
desire to know how it happens that you take your 
walks abroad, when you are supposed to be perma^ 
nently engaged at home ? ” 


Lie 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


Pie shrugged his shoulders, and actually winked 
at me, as he replied, “That’s all people know of 
what goes on under, or rather over, their noses. 
Bless you, ma’am! I leave my roost every night, 
and enjoy myself in all sorts of larks. Excuse the 
expression; but, being ornithological, it is more 
proper for me than for some people who use it.” 

“ What a gay old bird! ” thought I, feeling quite 
at home after that. “ Please tell me what you do, 
when the shades of evening prevail, and you go out 
for a frolic ? ” 

“ I am a gentleman; therefore I behave myself,” 
returned the eagle, with a stately air. “ I must con¬ 
fess, I smoke a great deal: but that’s not my fault, 
it’s the fault of the chimneys. They keep it up all 
day, and I have to take it; just as you poor ladies 
have to take cigar smoke, whether you like it or not. 
My amusements are of a wholesome kind. I usually 
begin by taking a long flight down the harbor, for 
a look at the lighthouses, the islands, the shipping, 
and the sea. My friends, the gulls, bring their re¬ 
ports to me; for they are the harbor-police, and I 


A CURIOUS CALL. 


. 117 


take notes of their doings. The school-ship is an 
object of interest to me, and I often perch on the 
mast-head, to see how the lads are getting on. 
Then I take a turn over the city, gossip with the 
weathercocks, pay my compliments to the bells, 
inspect the fire-alarm, and pick up information by 
listening at the telegraph wires. People often talk 
about ‘a little bird’ who spreads news; but they 
don’t know how that figure of speech originated. 
It is the sparrows sitting on the wires, who receive 
the electric shock, and, being hollow-boned, the 
news go straight to their heads; they then fly 
about, chirping it on the housetops, and the air car¬ 
ries it everywhere. That’s the way rumors rise and 
news spread.” 

“If you’ll allow, I’ll make a note of that inter¬ 
esting fact,” said I, wondering if I might believe 
him. He appeared to fall into a reverie, while I 
jotted down the sparrow story, and it occurred to 
me that perhaps I ought to offer my distinguished 
guest some refreshment ; but, when I modestly 
alluded to it, he said, with an aldermanic air, “No, 
thank you; I’ve just dined at the Parker House.” 


118 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


Now, I really could not swallow that; and so 
plainly betrayed my incredulity, that the eagle ex¬ 
plained. “ The savory smells which rise to my nos¬ 
trils from that excellent hotel, with an occasional 
sniff from the Tremont, are quite sufficient to satisfy 
my appetite; for, having no stomach, I don’t need 
much food, and I drink nothing but water.” 

“ I wish others would follow your example in that 
latter habit,” said I, respectfully, for I was beginning 
to see that there was something in my bird, though 
he was hollow. “Will you allow me to ask if the 
other statues in the city fly by night ? ” 

“ They promenade in the parks; and occasionally 
have social gatherings, when they discuss politics, 
education, medicine, or any of the subjects in which 
they are interested. Ah! we have grand times when 
you are all asleep. It quite repays me for being 
obliged to make an owl of myself.” 

“ Do the statues come from the shops to these 
parties?” I asked, resolving to take a late walk the 
next moonlight night. 

“ Sometimes; but they get lazy and delicate, liv^ 


A CURIOUS CALL. 


119 


ing in close, warm places. We laugh at cold and 
bad weather, and are so strong and hearty that I 
shouldn’t be surprised if I saw Webster and Everett 
flying round the Common on the new-fashioned 
velocipedes, for they believed in exercise. Goethe 
and Schiller often step over from De Vries’s win- 
dow, to flirt with the goddesses, who come down 
from their niches on Horticultural Hall. Nice, 
robust young women are Pomona and Flora. If 
your niminy-piminy girls could see them run, they 
would stop tilting through the streets, and learn that 
the true Grecian Bend is the line of beauty always 
found in straight shoulders, well-opened chest, and 
an upright figure, firmly planted on active feet.” 

“ In your rambles don’t you find a great deal of 
misery?” said I, to change the subject, for he was 
evidently old-fashioned in his notions. 

“ Many sad sights ! ” And he shook his head with 
a sigh ; then added, briskly, u But there is a deal of 
charity in our city, and it does its work beautifully. 
By the by, I heard of a very sweet charity the other 
day, — a church whose Sunday school is open to all 


120 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


the poor children who will come; and there, in 
pleasant rooms, with books, pictures, kindly teachers, 
and a fatherly minister to welcome them, the poor 
little creatures find refreshment for their hungry 
souls. I like that; it’s a lovely illustration of the 
text , 1 Sufier little children to come unto me; ’ and 1 
call it practical Christianity.” 

He did like it, my benevolent old bird; for he 
rustled his great wings, as if he wanted to clap 
them, if there had only been room; and every 
feather shone as if a clearer light than that of my 
little fire had fallen on it as he spoke. 

“You are a literary woman, hey?” he said sud¬ 
denly, as if he’d got a new idea, and was going to 
pounce upon me with it. 

“Ahem! I do a little in that line,” I answered, 
with a modest cough. j 

“Then tell people about that place; write some 
stories for the children ;^go and help teach them; do 
something, and make others do what they can to 
increase the Sabbath sunshine that brightens one 
day in the week for the poor babies who live in 
shady places.” 


A CURIOUS CALL. 


121 


“I should be glad to do my best; and, if I’d 
known before ” — I began. 

44 You might have known, if you’d looked about 
you. People are so wrapped up in their own affairs 
they don’t do half they might. Now, then, hand me 
a bit of paper, and I’ll give you the address, so you 
won’t have any excuse for forgetting what I tell 
you.” 

4 4 Mercy on us ! what will he do next ? ” thought 
I, as lie tweaked a feather out of his breast, gave the 
nib a peck, and then coolly wrote these words ou 
the card I handed him: 44 Church of the Disciples. 
Knock , and it shall he opened /” There it was, in 
letters of gold; and, while I looked at it, feeling 
reproached that I hadn’t known it sooner, my friend, 
— he didn’t seem a stranger any more, — said in a 
business-like tone, as he put back his pen, “Now I 
must be of!. Old Ben reads an article on the 4 Abuses 
of the Press at the present day,’ and I must be there 
to report.” 

4 4 It must be very interesting. I suppose you don’t 
allow mortals at your meetings?” said I, burning to 
go, in spite of the storm. 


122 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


“No, ma’am. We meet on the Common; and, in 
the present state of the weather, I don’t think flesh 
and blood would stand it. Bronze, marble, and 
wood, are sterner stuff, and can defy the elements.” 

“Good evening; pray, call again,” I said, hos¬ 
pitably. 

“I will; your eyrie suits me; but don’t expect 
me to call in the daytime. I’m on duty then, and 
can’t take my eye off my charge. The city needs a 
deal of watching, my dear. Bless me! it’s striking 
eight. Your watch is seven minutes slow by the 
Old South. Good-night, good-night!” 

And as I opened the window, the great bird soared 
away like a flash of light through the storm, leaving 
me so astonished at the whole performance that I 
haven’t got over it yet. 


TILLY’S CHRISTMAS. 


123 


TILLY’S CHRISTMAS. 

“T’M so glad to-morrow is Christmas, because I’m 
going to have lots of presents.” 

“ So am I glad, though I don’t expect any pres¬ 
ents but a pair of mittens.” 

“ And so am I; but I shan’t have any presents at 
all.” 

As the three little girls trudged home from school 
they said these things, and as Tilly spoke, both the 
others looked at her with pity and some surprise, 
for she spoke cheerfully, and they wondered how 
she could be happy when she was so poor she could 
have no presents on Christmas. 

“ Don’t you wish you could find a purse full of 
money right here in the path ? ” said Kate, the child 
who was going to have “ lots of presents.” 

“ Oh, don’t I, if I could keep it honestly! ” and 
Tilly’s eyes shone at the very thought. 


124 


AUNT JO'S SCRAP-BAG. 


“What would you buy?” asked Bessy, rubbing 
her cold hands, and longing for her mittens. 

“I’d buy a pair of large, warm blankets, a load 
of wood, a shawl for mother, and a pair of shoes for 
me; and if there was enough left, I’d give Bessy a 
new hat, and then she needn’t wear Ben’s old felt 
one,” answered Tilly. 

The girls laughed at that; but Bessy pulled the 
funny hat over her ears, and said she was much 
obliged, but she’d rather have candy. 

“Let’s look, and may be we can find a purse. 
People are always going about with money at Christ¬ 
mas time, and some one may lose it here,” said Kate. 

So, as they went along the snowy road, they 
looked about them, half in earnest, half in fun. 
Suddenly Tilly sprang forward, exclaiming,— 

“ I see it! I’ve found it! ” 

The others followed, but all stopped disappointed; 
for it wasn’t a purse, it was only a little bird. It 
lay upon the snow with its wings spread and feebly 
fluttering, as if too weak to fly. Its little feet were 
benumbed with cold; its once bright eyes were dull 


TILLY’S CHRISTMAS. 


125 


with pain, and instead of a blithe song, it could only- 
utter a faint chirp, now and then, as if crying for 
help. 

“Nothing but a stupid old robin; how provok¬ 
ing ! ” cried Kate, sitting down to rest. 

“I shan’t touch it. I found one once, and took 
care of it, and the ungrateful thing flew away the 
minute it was well,” said Bessy, creeping under 
Kate’s shawl, and putting her hands under her chin 
to warm them. 

“ Poor little birdie ! How pitiful he looks, and 
how glad he must be to see some one coming to 
help him! I’ll take him up gently, and carry him 
home to mother. Don’t be frightened, dear, I’m 
your friend;” and Tilly knelt down in the snow, 
stretching her hand to the bird with the tenderest 
pity in her face. 

Kate and Bessy laughed. 

“ Don’t stop for that thing; it’s getting late and 
cold: let’s go on and look for the purse,” they said, 
moving away. 

“You wouldn’t leave it to die!” cried Tilly. 


126 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


“I’d rather have the bird than the money, so 1 
shan’t look any more. The purse wouldn’t be mine, 
and I should only be tempted to keep it; but this 
poor thing will thank and love me, and I’m so glad 
I came in time.” 

Gently lifting the bird, Tilly felt its tiny cold 
claws cling to her hand, and saw its dim eyes 
brighten as it nestled down with a grateful chirp. 

“Now I’ve got a Christmas present after all,” she 
said, smiling, as they walked on. “ I always wanted 
a bird, and this one will be such a pretty pet 
for me.” 

“He’ll fly away the first chance he gets, and die 
anyhow; so you’d better not waste your time over 
him,” said Bessy. 

“ He can’t pay you for taking care of him, and 
my mother says it isn’t worth while to help folks 
that can’t help us,” added Kate. 

“ My mother says, 4 Do as you’d be done by; ’ and 
I’m sure I’d like any one to help me if I was dying 
of cold and hunger. 4 Love your neighbor as your¬ 
self,’ is another of her sayings. This bird is my 


TILLY’S CHRISTMAS, 


127 


little neighbor, and I’ll love him and care for him, 
as I often wish our rich neighbor would love and 
care for us,” answered Tilly, breathing her warm 
breath over the benumbed bird, who looked up at 
her with confiding eyes, quick to feel and know a 
friend. 

“ What a funny girl you are,” said Kate; “ caring 
for that silly bird, and talking about loving your 
neighbor in that sober way. Mr. King don’t care 
a bit for you, and never will, though he knows how 
poor you are; so I don’t think your plan amounts to 
much.” 

“ I believe it, though; and shall do my part, 
any way. Good-night. I hope you’ll have a merry 
Christmas, and lots of pretty things,” answered 
Tilly, as they parted. 

Her eyes were full, and she felt so poor as she 
went on alone toward the little old house where 
she lived. It would have been so pleasant to know 
that she was going to have some of the pretty things 
all children love to find in their full stockings on 
Christmas morning. And pleasanter still to have 


128 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


been able to give her mother something nice. So 
many comforts were needed, and there was no hoj:>e 
of getting them; for they could barely get food and 
fire. 

“Never mind, birdie, we’ll make the best of what 
we have, and be merry in spite of every thing. You 
shall have a happy Christmas, any way; and I know 
God won’t forget us, if every one else does.” 

She stopped a minute to wipe her eyes, and lean 
her cheek against the bird’s soft breast, finding great 
comfort in the little creature, though it could only 
love her, nothing more. 

“See, mother, what a nice present I’ve found,” 
she cried, going in with a cheery face that was like 
sunshine in the dark room. 

“ I’m glad of that, dearie; for I haven’t been able 
to get my little girl any thing but a rosy apple. 
Poor bird! Give it some of your warm bread and 
milk” 

“Why, mother, what a big bowlful! I’m afraid 
you gave me all the milk,” said Tilly, smiling over 
the nice, steaming supper that stood ready for her. 


TILLYS CHRISTMAS. 


129 


“ I’ve had plenty, dear. Sit down and dry yonr 
wet feet, and put the bird in my basket on this 
warm flannel.” 

Tilly peeped into the closet and saw nothing 
there but dry bread. 

“Mother’s given me all the milk, and is going 
without her tea, ’cause she knows I’m hungry. Now 
I’ll surprise her, and she shall have a good supper 
too. She is going to split wood, and I’ll fix it while 
she’s gone.” 

So Tilly put down the old tea-pot, carefully 
poured out a part of the milk, and from her pocket 
produced a great, plummy bun, that one of the 
school-children had given her, and she had saved 
for her mother. A slice of the dry bread was nicely 
toasted, and the bit of butter set by for her put on 
it. When her mother came in there was the table 
drawn up in a warm place, a hot cup of tea ready, 
and Tilly and birdie waiting for her. 

Such a poor little supper, and yet such a happy 
one; for love, charity, and contentment were guests 
there, and that Christmas eve was a blither one 

9 


130 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


than that up at the great house, where lights shone, 
fires blazed, a great tree glittered, and music 
sounded, as the children danced and played. 

“We must go to bed early, for we’ve only wood 
enough to last over to-morrow. I shall be paid for 
my work the day after, and then we can get some,” 
said Tilly’s mother, as they sat by the fire. 

“If my bird was only a fairy bird, and would 
give us three wishes, how nice it would be! Poor 
dear, he can’t give me any thing; but it’s no mat¬ 
ter,” answered Tilly, looking at the robin, who lay 
in the basket with his head under his wing, a mere 
little feathery bunch. 

“He can give you one thing, Tilly,—the pleasure 
of doing good. That is one of the sweetest things 
in life; and the poor can enjoy it as well as the 
rich.” 

As her mother spoke, with her tired hand softly 
stroking her little daughter’s hair, Tilly suddenly 
started and pointed to the window, saying, in a 
frightened whisper, — 

“ I saw a face, — a man’s face, looking in! It’s 
gone now; but I truly saw it.” 


TILLYS CHRISTMAS. 


131 


“ Some traveller attracted by the light perhaps. 
I’ll go and see.” And Tilly’s mother went to the 
door. 

No one was there. The wind blew cold, the stars 
shone, the snow lay white on field and wood, and 
the Christmas moon was glittering in the sky. 

“ What sort of a face was it ? ” asked Tilly’s 
mother, coming back. 

“ A pleasant sort of face, I think; but I was so 
startled I don’t quite know what it was like. I 
wish we had a curtain there,” said Tilly. 

“ I like to have our light shine out in the evening, 
for the road is dark and lonely just here, and the 
twinkle of our lamp is pleasant to people’s eyes as 
they go by. We can do so little for our neighbors, 
I am glad to cheer the way for them. Now put 
these poor old shoes to dry, and go to bed, dearie; 
I’ll come soon.” 

Tilly went, taking her bird with her to sleep in his 
basket near by, lest he should be lonely in the night. 

Soon the little house was dark and still, and no 
one saw the Christmas spirits at their work that night. 


132 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


When Tilly opened the door next morning, she 
gave a loud cry, clapped her hands, and then stood 
still, quite speechless with wonder and delight. 
There, before the door, lay a great pile of wood, all 
ready to burn, a big bundle and a basket, with a 
lovely nosegay of winter roses, holly, and evergreen 
tied to the handle. 

“ Oh, mother! did the fairies do it ? ” cried Tilly, 
paje with her happiness, as she seized the basket, 
while her mother took in the bundle. 

“ Yes, dear, the best and dearest fairy in the world, 
called 4 Charity.’ She walks abroad at Christmas 
time, does beautiful deeds like this, and does not 
stay to be thanked,” answered her mother with full 
eyes, as she undid the parcel. 

There they were, — the warm, thick blankets, the 
comfortable shawl, the new shoes, and, best of all, a 
pretty winter hat for Bessy. The basket was full of 
good things to eat, and on the flowers lay a paper 
saying,— 

“ For the little girl who loves her neighbor as 
herself.” 


TILLTS CHRISTMAS. 


133 


“ Mother, I really think my bird is a fairy bird, 
and all these splendid things come from him,” said 
Tilly, laughing and crying with joy. 

It really did seem so, for as she spoke, the robin 
flew to the table, hopped to the nosegay, and perch¬ 
ing among the roses, began to chirp with all his little 
might. The sun streamed in on flowers, bird, and 
happy child, and no one saw a shadow glide away 
from the window; no one ever knew that Mr. King 
had seen and heard the little girls the night before, 
or dreamed that the rich neighbor had learned a 
iesson from the poor neighbor. 

And Tilly’s bird was a fairy bird; for by her love 
and tenderness to the helpless thing, she brought 
good gifts to herself, happiness to the unknown 
giver of them, and a faithful little friend who did 
not fly away, but stayed with her till the snow was 
gone, making summer for her in the winter-time. 


134 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


MY LITTLE GENTLEMAN. 


"X TO one would have thought of calling him so, 
■** ^ this ragged, barefooted, freckle-faced Jack, 
who spent his days carrying market-baskets for the 
butcher, or clean clothes for Mrs. Quinn, selling 
chips, or grubbing in the ash-heaps for cinders. But 
he was honestly earning his living, doing his duty as 
well as he knew how, and serving those poorer and 
more helpless than himself, and that is being a gen¬ 
tleman in the best sense of that fine old word. He 
had no home but Mrs. Quinn’s garret; and for this he 
paid by carrying the bundles and getting the cinders 
for her fire. Food and clothes he picked up as he 
could; and his only friend was little Nanny. Her 
mother had been kind to him when the death of 
his father left him all alone in the world; and when 
she, too, passed away, the boy tried to show his 
gratitude by comforting the little girl, who thought 
there was no one in the world like her Jack. 


135 


MY LITTLE GENTLEMAN. I 


till she 
Nanny 

had been sick, and still sat about, a pale, little shadow 
of her former self, with a white film slowly coming 
over her pretty blue eyes. This was Jack’s great 
trouble, and he couldn’t whistle it away as he did 
his own worries; for he was a cheery lad, and when 
the baskets were heavy, the way long, the weather 
bitter cold, his }>oor clothes in rags, or his stomach 
empty, he just whistled, and somehow things seemed 
to get right. But the day he carried Nanny the first 
dandelions, and she felt of them, instead of looking 
at them, as she said, with such pathetic patience in 
her little face, “ I don’t see ’em; but I know they’re 
pretty, and I like ’em lots,” Jack felt as if the blithe 
spring sunshine was all spoiled; and when he tried to 
cheer himself up with a good whistle, his lips trem¬ 
bled so they wouldn’t pucker. 

“ The poor dear’s eyes could be cured, I ain’t a 
doubt; but it would take a sight of money, and 
who’s agoing to pay it ? ” said Mrs. Quinn, scrubbing 
away at her tub. 


Old Mrs. Quinn took care of her, waiting 
was strong enough to work for herself; bufi 


.186 AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 

x 

“Hoa y much money?” asked Jack. 

“ A liundred dollars, I dare say. Dr. Wilkinson’s 
cook told me once that he done something to a 
lady’s eyes, and asked a thousand dollars for it.” 

Jack sighed a long, hopeless sigh, and went away 
to fill the water-pails; but he remembered the doc¬ 
tor’s name, and began to wonder how many years it 
would take to earn a hundred dollars. 

Nanny was very patient; but, by and by, Mrs. 
Quinn began to talk about sending her to some 
almshouse, for she was too poor to be burdened with 
a helpless child. The fear of this nearly broke 
Jack’s heart; and he went about with such an 
anxious face that it was a mercy Nanny did not see 
it. Jack was only twelve, but he had a hard load to 
carry just then; for the thought of his little friend, 
doomed to lifelong darkness for want of a little 
money, tempted him to steal more than once, and 
gave him the first fierce, bitter feeling against those 
better off than he. When he carried nice dinners to 
the great houses and saw the plenty that prevailed 
there, he couldn’t help feeling that it wasn’t fair for 


MY LITTLE GENTLEMAN. 


13T 


some to have so much, and others so little. When 
he saw pretty children playing in the park, or driv¬ 
ing with their mothers, so gay, so well cared for, so 
tenderly loved, the poor boy’s eyes would fill to 
think of poor little Nanny, with no friend in the 
world but himself, and he so powerless to help her. 

When he one day mustered courage to ring at 
the great doctor’s bell, begging to see him a minute, 
and the servant answered, gruffly, as he shut the 
door, “ Go along! he can’t be bothered with the like 
of you!” Jack clenched his hands hard as he went 
down the steps, and said to himself, with a most un- 
boyish tone, “ I’ll get the money somehow, and make 
him let me in! ” 

He did get it, and in a most unexpected way; but 
he never forgot the desperate feeling that came to 
him that day, and all his life long he was very 
tender to people who were tempted in their times 
of trouble, and yielded, as he was saved from doing, 
by what seemed an accident. 

Some days after his attempt at the doctor’s, as he 
was grubbing in a newly-deposited ash-heap, with 


138 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


the bitter feeling very bad, and the trouble very 
heavy, he found a dirty old pocket-book, and put it 
in his bosom without stopping to examine it; for 
many boys and girls were scratching, like a brood 
of chickens, all round him, and the pickings were 
unusually good, so no time must be lost. “ Findings 
is havings” was one of the laws of the ash-heap 
haunters; and no one thought of disputing another’s 
right to the spoons and knives that occasionally 
found their way into the ash-barrels; while bottles, 
old shoes, rags, and paper, were regular articles of 
traffic among them. Jack got a good basketful that 
day; and when the hurry was over sat down to rest 
and clear the dirt off his face with an old silk duster 
which he had picked out of the rubbish, thinking 
. Mrs. Quinn might wash it up for a handkerchief. 
But he didn’t wipe his dirty face that day; for, with 
the rag, out tumbled a pocket-book; and on opening 
it he saw — money. Yes; a roll of bills, with two 
figures on all of them, — three tens and one twenty. 
It took his breath away for a minute; then he 
hugged the old book tight in both his grimy hands, 


MY LITTLE GENTLEMAN. 


139 


and rocked to and fro all in a heap among the oys¬ 
ter-shells and rusty tin kettles, saying to himself, 
with tears running down his cheeks, “O Nanny! 
O Nanny! now I can do it!” 

I don’t think a basket of cinders ever travelled at 
such a rate before as Mrs. Quinn’s did that day; for 
Jack tore home at a great pace, and burst into the 
room, waving the old duster, and shouting, “Hooray! 
I’ve got it! I’ve got it! ” 

It is no wonder Mrs. Quinn thought he had lost 
his wits; for he looked like a wild boy, with his face 
all streaked with tears and red ashes, as he danced 
a double-shuffle till he was breathless, then show¬ 
ered the money into Nanny’s lap, and hugged her 
with another u Hooray! ” which ended in a choke. 
When they got him quiet and heard the story, Mrs. 
Quinn rather damped his joy, by telling him the 
money wasn’t his, and he ought to advertise it. 

“But I want it for Nanny!” cried Jack; “and 
how can I ever find who owns it, when there was 
ever so many barrels emptied in that heap, and no 
one knows where they came from ? ” 


140 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


“ It’s very like you won’t find the owner, and you 
can do as you please; but it’s honest to try, I’m 
thinking, for some poor girl may have lost her earn- 
in’s this way, and we wouldn’t like that ourselves,” 
said Mrs. Quinn, turning over the shabby pocket- 
book, and carefully searching for some clue to its 
owner. 

Nanny looked very sober, and Jack grabbed up 
the money as if it were too precious to lose. But 
he wasn’t comfortable about it; and after a hard 
fight with himself he consented to let Mrs. Quinn 
ask their policeman what they should do. He was 
a kindly man; and when he heard the story, said 
he’d do what was right, and if he couldn’t find an 
owner, Jack should have the fifty dollars back. 

How hard it was to wait! how Jack thought and 
dreamed of his money, day and night! How Nanny 
ran to the door to listen when a heavy step came 
up the stairs! and how wistfully the poor darkened 
eyes turned to the light which they longed to see 
again. 

Honest John Floyd did his duty, but he didn’t 


MY LITTLE GENTLEMAN. 


141 


find the owner; so the old purse came back at last, 
and now Jack could keep it with a clear conscience. 
Nanny was asleep when it happened; and as they 
sat counting the dingy bills, Mrs. Quinn said to the 
boy, “Jack, you’d better keep this for yourself. I 
doubt if it’s enough to do the child any good; and 
you need clothes and shoes, and a heap of things, 
let alone the books you hanker after so much. It 
ain’t likely you’ll ever find another wallet. It’s all 
luck about Nanny’s eyes; and maybe you are only 
throwing away a chance you’ll never have again.” 

Jack leaned his head on his arms and stared at the 
money, all spread out there, and looking so magnifi¬ 
cent to him that it seemed as if it could buy half the 
world. He did need clothes; his hearty boy’s ap¬ 
petite did long for better food; and, oh! how 
splendid it would be to go and buy the books he had 
wanted so long, — the books that would give him a 
taste of the knowledge which was more enticing to 
his wide-awake young mind than clothes and food to 
his poor little body. It wasn’t an easy thing to do; 
but he was so used to making small sacrifices that 


142 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


the great one was less hard; and when he Wd 
brooded over the money a few minutes in thought¬ 
ful silence, his eye went from the precious bits of 
paper to the dear little face in the trundle-bed, and 
he said, with a decided nod, “I’ll give Nanny the 
chance, and work for my things, or go without ’em.” 

Mrs. Quinn was a matter-of-fact body; but her 
hard old face softened when he said that, and she 
kissed him good-night almost as gently as if she’d 
been his mother. 

Next day, Jack presented himself at Dr. Wilkin¬ 
son’s door, with the money in one hand and Nanny 
in the other, saying boldly to the gruff servant, “ I 
want to see the doctor. I can pay; so you’d better 
let me in.” 

I’m afraid cross Thomas would have shut the door 
in the boy’s face again, if it had not been for the lit¬ 
tle blind girl, who looked up at him so imploringly 
that he couldn’t resist the mute appeal. 

“The doctor’s going out; but maybe he’ll see you 
a minute;” and with that he-led them into a room 
where stood a tall man putting on his gloves. 


MY LITTLE GENTLEMAN. 


143 


Jack was a modest boy; but he was so afraid that 
Nanny would lose her chance, that he forgot himself, 
and told the little story as fast as he could — told it 
well, too, I fancy; for the doctor listened attentively, 
his eye going from the boy’s eager, flushed face, to 
the pale patient one beside him, as if the two little 
figures, shabby though they were, illustrated the story 
better than the finest artist could have done. When 
Jack ended, the doctor sat Nanny on his knee, gently 
lifted up the half-shut eyelids, and after examining 
the film a minute, stroked her pretty hair, and said 
so kindly that she nestled her little hand confidingly 
into his, “ I think I can help you, my dear. Tell me 
where you live, and I’ll attend to it at once, for it’s 
high time something was done.” 

Jack told him, adding, with a manly air, as he 
showed the money, “I can pay you, sir, if fifty 
dollars is enough.” 

“ Quite enough,” said the doctor, with a droll 
smile. 

“ If it isn’t, I’ll work for the rest, if you’ll trus\, 
me. Please save Nanny’s eyes, and I’ll do any 


144 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


thing to pay you!” cried Jack, getting red and 
choky in his earnestness. 

The doctor stopped smiling, and held out his hand 
in a grave, respectful way, as he said, “ I’ll trust you, 
my boy. We’ll cure Nanny first; and you and I 
will settle the bill afterward.” 

Jack liked that; it was a gentlemanly way of 
doing things, and he showed his satisfaction by 
smiling all over his face, and giving the big, white 
hand a hearty shake with both his rough ones. 

The doctor was a busy man; but he kept them 
some time, for there were no children in the fine 
house, and it seemed pleasant to have a little girl 
sit on his knee and a bright boy stand beside his 
chair; and when, at last, they went away, they 
looked as if he had given them some magic medicine, 
which made them forget every trouble they had 
ever known. 

Next day the kind man came to give Nanny her 
chance. She had no doubt, and very little fear, but 
looked up at him so confidingly when all was ready, 
that he stooped down and kissed her softly before 
he touched her eyes. 


MY LITTLE GENTLEMAN. 


145 


“Let Jack hold my hands; then I’ll be still, and 
not mind if it hurts me,” she said. So Jack, pale 
with anxiety, knelt down before her, and kept the 
little hands steadily in his all through the minutes 
that seemed so long to him. 

“ What do you see, my child ? ” asked the doctor, 
when he had done something to both eyes, with a 
quick, skilful hand. 

Nanny leaned forward, with the film all gone, and 
answered, with a little cry of joy, that went to the 
hearts of those who heard it, “Jack’s face! I see it! 
oh, I see it! ” 

Only a freckled, round face, with wet eyes and 
tightly-set lips ; but to Nanny it was as beautiful as 
the face of an angel; and when she was laid away 
with bandaged eyes to rest, it haunted all her 
dreams, for it was the face of the little friend who 
loved her best. 

Nanny’s chance was not a failure; and when she 
saw the next dandelions he brought her, all the sun¬ 
shine came back into the world brighter than ever 
for Jack. Well might it seem so; for his fifty dollars 

10 


146 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


bought him many things that money seldom buys. 
The doctor wouldn’t take it at first; but when Jack 
said, in the manful tone the doctor liked although it 
made him smile, “ It was a bargain, sir. I wish to 
pay my debts; and I shan’t feel happy if Nanny 
don’t have it all for her eyes. Please do! I’d 
rather,”—then he took it; and Nanny did have it, 
not only for her eyes, but in clothes and food and 
care, many times over; for it was invested in a bank 
that pays good interest on every mite so given. 

Jack discovered that fifty dollars was far less than 
most people would have had to pay, and begged 
earnestly to be allowed to work for the rest. The 
doctor agreed to this, and Jack became his errand- 
boy, serving with a willingness that made a pleasure 
of duty; soon finding that many comforts quietly got 
into his life; that much help was given without 
words; and that the days of hunger and rags, heavy 
burdens and dusty ash-heaps, were gone by for 
ever. 

The happiest hours of Jack’s day were spent in the 
doctor’s chaise, when he made his round of visits; 


MY LITTLE GENTLEMAN. 


147 


for while he waited, the boy studied or read, and 
while they drove hither and thither, the doctor 
talked with him, finding an eager mind as well as a 
tender heart and a brave spirit under the rough 
jacket of his little serving-man. But he never called 
him that; for, remembering the cheerfulness, self- 
denial, honesty, and loyalty to those he loved, shown 
by the boy, the good doctor proved his respect for 
the virtues all men should covet, wherever they are 
found, and always spoke of Jack with a smile, as 
“ My Little Gentleman.” 


148 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG, 


BACK WINDOWS. 


S I sit working at my back window, I look out 



on a long row of other people’s back win¬ 
dows; and it is quite impossible for me to help 
seeing and being interested in my neighbors. There 
are a good many children in those houses; and 
though I don’t know one of their names, I know 
them a great deal better than they think I do. I 
never spoke a word to any of them, and never 
expect to do so; yet, I have my likes and dislikes 
among them, and could tell them things that they 
have said and done, which would astonish them 
very much, I assure you. 

First, the babies, — for there are three: the aristo¬ 
cratic baby, the happy-go-lucky baby, and the for¬ 
lorn baby. The aristocratic baby lives in a fine, 
well-furnished room, has a pretty little mamma, 
who wenrs white gowns, and pink ribbons in her 


BACK WINDOWS. 


149 


cap; likewise, a fond young papa, who evidently 
thinks this the most wonderful baby in Boston. 
There is a stout, motherly lady, who is the grandma, 
I fancy, for she is always hovering about “the 
dear ” with cups, blankets, or a gorgeous red worsted 
bird to amuse it. Baby is a plump, rosy, sweet-faced 
little creature, always smiling and kissing its hand 
to the world in general. In its pretty white frocks, 
with its own little pink or blue ribbons, and its 
young mamma proudly holding it up to see and be 
seen, my aristocratic neighbor has an easy life of it, 
and is evidently one of the little lilies who do 
nothing but blossom in the sunshine. 

The happy-go-lucky baby is just able to toddle; 
and I seldom pull up my curtain in the morning 
without seeing him at his window in his yellow 
flannel night-gown, taking a look at the weather. 
No matter whether it rains or shines, there he is, 
$iniling and nodding, and looking so merry, that it 
is evident he has plenty of sunshine bottled up 
in his own little heart for private use. I depend 
on seeing him, and feel as if the world was not right 


150 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


until this golden little sun rises to shine upon me 
He don’t seem to have any one to take care of him, 
but trots about all day, and takes care of himself. 
Sometimes he is up in the chambers with the girl, 
while she makes beds, and he helps; then he takes 
a stroll into the parlor, and spins the gay curtain- 
tassels to his heart’s content; next, he dives into 
the kitchen (I hope he does not tumble downstairs, 
but I dare say he wouldn’t mind if he did), and he 
gets pushed about by all the busy women, as they 
“ fly round.” I rather think it gets too hot for him 
there about dinner-time; for he often comes out 
into the yard for a walk at noon, and seems to find 
endless wonders and delights in the ash-barrel, the 
water-butt, two old flower-pots, and a little grass 
plat, in which he plants a choice variety of articles, 
in the firm faith they will come up in full bloom. I 
hope the big spoon and his own red shoe will sprout 
and appear before any trouble is made about their 
mysterious disappearance. At night I see a little 
shadow bobbing about on the curtain, and watch it, 
till, with a parting glimpse at a sleepy face at the 


BACK WINDOWS. 


151 


window, my small sun sets, and I leave him to his 
dreams. 

The forlorn baby roars all day, and I don’t blame 
him ; for he is trotted, shaken, spanked, and scolded 
by a very cross nurse, who treats him like a meal- 
bag. I pity that little neighbor, and don’t believe 
he will stand it long; for I see him double up his 
tiny fists, and spar away at nothing, as if getting 
ready for a good tussle with the world by and by, if 
he lives to try it. 

Then the boys, — bless their buttons! — how amus¬ 
ing they are. One young man, aged about ten, 
keeps hens; and the trials of that boy are really 
pathetic. The biddies get out every day or two, 
and fly away all over the neighborhood, like feathers 
when you shake a pillow. They cackle and crow, 
and get up on sheds and fences, and trot down the 
streets, all at once, and that poor fellow spins round 
after them like a distracted top. One by one he 
gets them and comes lugging them back, upside 
down, in the most undignified attitude, and shuts 
them up, and hammers away, and thinks they are 


152 


AUNT JO'S SCRAP-BAG. 


all safe, and sits down to rest, when a triumphant 
crow from some neighboring shed tells him that 
that rascally black rooster is out again for another 
promenade. I’m not bloodthirsty; but I really do 
long for Thanksgiving, that my neighbor Hen-ry 
may find rest for the sole of his foot; for, not till his 
poultry are safely eaten will he ever know where 
they are. 

Another boy has a circus about once a week, and 
tries to break his neck jumping through hoops, 
hanging to a rope by his heels, turning somersaults 
in the air, and frightening his mother out of her wits 
by his pranks. I suspect that he has been to see 
Leotard, and I admire his energy, for he is never 
discouraged; and, after tumbling flat, half-a-dozen 
times, he merely rubs his elbows and knees, and 
then up and takes another. 

There is a good, domestic boy, who brushes and 
curls his three little sisters’ hair every morning, and 
must do it very gently, for they seem to like it; 
and I often see them watch at the back gate for 
him, and clap their hands, and run to meet him, sure 


BACK WINDOWS. 


153 


of being welcomed as little sisters like to be met by 
the big brothers whom they love. I respect that 
virtuous boy. 

The naughty boy is very funny; and the running 
fight he keeps up with the cross cook is as good as 
a farce. He is a torment, but I think she could 
tame him, if she took the right way. The other 
day she wouldn’t let him in because she had washed 
up her kitchen and his boots were muddy. He 
wiped them on the grass, but that wouldn’t do; 
and, after going at her with his head down, like a 
battering-ram, he gave it up, or seemed to; for, the 
minute she locked the door behind her and came 
out to take in her clothes, that sly dog whipped up 
one of the low windows, scrambled in, and danced 
a hornpipe all over the kitchen, while the fat cook 
scolded and fumbled for her key, for she couldn’t 
follow through the window. Of course he was off 
upstairs by the time she got in; but I’m afraid he 
had a shaking, for I saw him glowering fiercely as 
he came out later with a basket, going some “ con¬ 
founded errand.” Occasionally his father brings 


154 


AUNT JO'S SCRAP-BAG. 


him out and whips him for some extra bad offence, 
during which performance he howls dismally; but 
when he is left sitting despondently and miracu¬ 
lously on an old chair without any seat, he soon 
cheers up, boos at a strange cat, whistles to his dog, 
— who is just like him, — or falls back on that stand¬ 
ing cure for all the ills that boys are heir to, and whit¬ 
tles vigorously. I know I ought to frown upon this 
reprehensible young person, and morally close my 
eyes to his pranks; but I really can’t do it, and am 
afraid I find this little black sheep the most interest, 
jng of the flock. 

The girls have tea-parties, make calls, and play 
mother, of course; and the sisters of the good boy 
have capital times up in a big nursery, with such 
large dollies that I can hardly tell which are the 
babies and which the mammas. One little girl 
plays about at home with a dirty face, tumbled hair, 
and an old pinafore on. She won’t be made tidy, 
and I see her kick and cry when they try to make 
her neat. Now and then there is a great dressing 
and curling; and then I see her prancing away in 


BACK WINDOWS. 


155 


her light boots, smart hat, and j)retty dress, looking 
as fresh as a daisy. But I don’t admire her; for I’ve 
been behind the scenes, you see, and I know that 
she likes to be fine rather than neat. 

So is the girl who torments her kitty, slaps her 
sister, and runs away when her mother tells her not 
to go out of the yard. But the housewifely little 
girl who tends the baby, washes the cups, and goes 
to school early with a sunshiny face and kiss all 
round, she , now, is a neighbor worth having, and I’d 
put a good mark against her name if I knew it. 

I don’t know as it would be proper for me to men¬ 
tion the grown-up people over the way. They go 
on very much as the children do; for there is the 
lazy, dandified man, who gets up late, and prinks; 
the cross man, who swears at the shed-door when it 
won’t shut; the fatherly man, who sits among his 
children every evening; and the cheery old man up 
in the attic, who has a flower in his window, and 
looks out at the world with very much the same 
serene smile as my orange-colored baby. 

The women, too, keep house, make calls, and play 


156 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-DAG. 


mother; and some don’t do it well either. The for- 
lorn baby’s mamma never seems to cuddle and com¬ 
fort him; and some day, when the little fist lies cold 
and quiet, I’m alraid she’ll wish she had. Then the 
naughty boy’s mother. I’m very sure, if she put 
her arms round him sometimes, and smoothed that 
rough head of his, and spoke to him as only mothers 
can speak, that it would tame him far better than 
the scoldings and thrashings; for I know there is a 
true boy’s heart, warm and tender, somewhere under 
the jacket that gets dusted so often. As for the fine 
lady who lets her children do as they can, while she 
trims her bonnet, or makes panniers, I wouldn’t be 
introduced to her on any account. But as some 
might think it was unjustifiable curiosity on my part 
to see these things, and an actionable offence to 
speak of them, I won’t mention them. 

I sometimes wonder if the kind spirits who feel 
an interest in mortals ever take a look at us on the 
shady side which we don’t show the world, seeing 
the trouble, vanities, and sins which we think no one 
knows. If they love, pity, or condemn us ? What 


BACK WINDOWS. 


157 


records they keep, and what rewards they prepare 
for those who are so busy with their work and play 
that they forget who may be watching their back 
windows with clearer eyes and truer charity than 
jmy inquisitive old lady with a pen in her hand ? 


158 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


LITTLE MARIE OF LEHON. 

11 TTERE comes our pretty little girl,” I said to 
A Kate, as we sat resting on the seat beside 
the footpath that leads from Dinan on the hill to 
Lehon in the valley. 

Yes, there she was, trotting toward us in her 
round cap, blue woollen gown, wdiite apron, and 
wooden shoes. On her head was a loaf of buck¬ 
wheat bread as big as a small wheel, in one hand a 
basket full of green stuff, while the other led an old 
goat, who seemed in no hurry to get home. We had 
often seen this rosy, bright-eyed child, had nodded 
to her, but never spoken, for she looked rather shy 
and always seemed in haste. Row the sight of the 
goat reminded us of an excuse for addressing her, 
and as she was about to pass with the respectful 
little curtsey of the country, my friend said in 
French: — 


LITTLE MARIE OF LEE ON. 


159 


“Stay, please. I want to speak to you.” She 
stopped at once and stood looking at us under her 
long eyelashes in a timid, yet confiding way, very 
pretty to see. 

“We want to drink goat’s milk every morning: 
can you let us have it, little one ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, mademoiselle! Nannette gives fine milk, 
and no one has yet engaged her,” answered the child, 
her whole face brightening at the prospect. 

“ What name have you ? ” 

“ Marie Rosier, mademoiselle.” 

“ And you live at Lelion ? ” 

“Yes, mademoiselle.” 

“ Have you parents ? ” 

“ Truly, yes, of the best. My father has a loom, 
my mother works in the field and mill with brother 
Yvon, and I go to school and care for Nannette and 
nurse little Bebe.” 

“What school?” 

“ At the convent, mademoiselle. The good sisters 
teach us the catechism, also to write and read and 
sew. I like it much,” and Marie glanced at the 


160 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


little prayer in her apron pocket, as if proud to 
show she could read it. 

“ What age have you ? ” 

“ Ten years, mademoiselle.” 

“ You are young to do so much, for we often see 
you in the market buying and selling, and sometimes 
digging in your garden there below, and bringing 
water from the river. Do you love work as well as 
school ? ” 

“ Ah, no; but mademoiselle knows it is necessary 
to work; every one does, and I am glad to do my 
part. Yvon works much harder than I, and the 
father sits all day at his loom, yet he is sick and 
suffers much. Yes, I am truly glad to help,” and 
little Marie settled the big loaf as if quite ready to 
bear her share of the burdens. 

“ Shall we go and see your father about the goat ? 
and if he agrees will you bring the milk fresh and 
warm every morning?” I asked, thinking that a 
sight of that blooming face would brighten our days 
for us. 

“Oh, yes! I always do it for the ladies, and you 


LITTLE MARIE OF LEI10N. 


1G1 


will find the milk quite fresh and warm, hey, IsTan- 
nette ?” and Marie laughed as she pulled the goat from 
the hedge where she was nibbling the young leaves. 

We followed the child as she went clattering 
down the stony path, and soon came into the 
narrow street bounded on one side by the row of 
low, stone houses, and on the other by the green, 
wet meadow full of willows, and the rapid mill- 
stream. All along this side of the road sat women 
and children, stripping the bark from willow twigs 
to be used in basket-making. A busy sight and 
a cheerful one; for the women gossiped in their 
high, clear voices, the children sang and laughed, 
and the babies crept about as freely as young 
lambs. 

We found Marie’s home a very poor one. Only 
two rooms in the little hut, the lower one with its 
earthern floor, beds in the wall, smoky fire, and 
single window where the loom stood. At it sat 
a pale, dark man who stopped work as we entered, 
and seemed glad to rest while we talked to him, or 
rather while Kate did, for I could not understand 

11 


162 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


his odd French, and preferred to watch Marie during 
the making of the bargain. 

Yvon, a stout lad of twelve, was cutting up brush 
with an old sickle, and little Bebe, looking like 
a Dutch doll in her tiny round cap, tight blue gown, 
and bits of sabots, clung to Marie as she got the 
supper. 

I wondered what the children at home would 
have said to such a supper. A few cabbage leaves 
made the soup, and this, with the dry black bread 
and a sip of sour wine, was all they had. There 
were no plates or bowls, but little hollow places in 
the heavy wooden table near the edge, and into 
these fixed cups Marie ladled the soup, giving each 
a wooden spoon from a queer rack in the middle; 
the kettle stood at one end, the big loaf lay at 
the other, and all stood round eating out of their 
little troughs, with Nannette and a rough dog close 
by to receive any crusts that might be left. 

Presently the mother came in, a true Breton 
woman; rosy and robust, neat and cheery, though 
her poor clothes were patched all over, her hands 


LITTLE MARIE OF LEHON. 


163 


more rough and worn with hard work than any 
I ever saw, and the fine hair under her picturesque 
cap gray at thirty with much care. 

I saw then where Marie got the brightness that 
seemed to shine in every feature of her little face, 
for the mother’s coming was like a ray of sunshine 
in that dark place, and she had a friendly word 
and look for every one. 

Our little arrangement was soon made, and we 
left them all smiling and nodding as if the few 
francs we were to pay would be a fortune to 
them. 

Early next morning we were wakened by Fran- 
§oise the maid, who came up to announce that 
the goat’s milk had arrived. Then we heard a 
queer, quick, tapping sound on the stairs, and to our 
great amusement, Nannette walked into the room, 
straight up to my bedside, and stood there looking 
at me with her mild yellow eyes as if she was quite 
used to seeing night-caps. Marie followed with a 
pretty little bowl in her hand, and said, laughing 
at our surprise, “ See, dear mademoiselle; in this 


164 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


way I make sure that the milk is quite fresh and 
warm;” and kneeling down, she milked the bowl 
full in a twinkling, while Nannette quietly chewed 
her cud and sniffed at a plate of rolls on the 
table. 

The warm draught was delicious, and we drank 
each our portion with much merriment. 

“It is our custom,” said Fran9oise; who stood 
by with her arms folded, and looked on in a lofty 
manner. 

“ What had you for your own breakfast ? ” I 
asked, as I caught Marie’s eye hungrily fixed on the 
rolls and some tempting little cakes of chocolate 
left from our lunch the day before. 

“ My good bread, as usual, mademoiselle, also sor¬ 
rel salad and — and water,” answered Marie, as if 
trying to make the most of her scanty meal. 

“Will you eat the rolls and put the chocolate 
in your pocket to nibble at school? You must be 
tired with this long walk so early.” 

She hesitated, but could not resist; and said in a 
low tone, as she held the bread in her hand without 
eating it, — 


LITTLE MARIE OF LEHON. 


165 


“Would mademoiselle be angry if I took it to 
Bebe ? She lias never tasted the beautiful white 
bread, and it would please her much.” 

I emptied the plate into her basket, tucked in the 
chocolate, and added a gay picture for baby, which 
unexpected treasures caused Marie to clasp her 
hands and turn quite red with delight. 

After that she came daily, and we had merry 
times with old Nannette and her little mistress, 
whom we soon learned to love, so busy, blithe, and 
grateful was she. 

We soon found a new way to employ her, for the 
boy who drove our donkey did not suit us, and we 
got the donkey-woman to let us have Marie in the 
afternoon when her lessons were done. She liked 
that, and so did we; for she seemed to understand 
the nature of donkeys, and could manage them with¬ 
out so much beating and shouting as the boy thought 
necessary. Such pleasant drives as we had, we two 
big women in the droll wagon, drawn by the lit¬ 
tle gray donkey that looked as if made of an old 
trunk, so rusty and rough was he as he went trot- 


166 


AUNT JO'S SCRAP-BAG. 


ting along, his long ears wagging, and his small 
hoofs clattering over the fine, hard road, while 
Marie sat on the shaft with a long whip, talking and 
laughing, and giving Andre a poke now and then, 
crying “E! E! houp la!” to make him go. 

We found her a capital little guide and story¬ 
teller, for her grandmother had told her all the tales 
and legends of the neighborhood, and it was very 
pleasant to hear her repeat them in pretty peasant 
French, as we sat among the ruins, while Kate 
sketched, I took notes, and Marie held the big par¬ 
asol over us. 

Some of these stories were charming; at least as 
she told them, with her little face changing from gay 
to sad as she gesticulated most dramatically. 

The romance of “Gilles de Bretagne” was one of 
her favorites. How he carried off his child-wife 
when she was only twelve, how he was imprisoned 
and poisoned, and at last left to starve in a dungeon, 
and would stand at his window crying, “Bread, 
bread; for the love of God! ” yet no one dared to 
give him any, till a poor peasant woman went in 


LITTLE MARIE OF LEHON. 


167 


the night and gave him half her black loaf. Not 
once, but every night, for six months, though she 
robbed her children to do it. And when he was 
dying, it was she who took a priest to him that 
he might confess through the bars of his cell. 

“So good, ah, so good, this poor woman! It 
is beautiful to hear of that, mademoiselle! ” little 
Marie would say, with her black eyes full, and her 
lips trembling. 

But the story she liked best of all was about the 
peasant girl and her grandmother. 

“ See then, dear ladies, it was in this way. In the 
time of the great war many poor people were shot 
because it was feared they would burn the chateaus. 
In one of these so sad parties being driven to St. 
Malo to be shot, was this young girl. Only fifteen, 
dear ladies, behold how young is this! and see the 
brave thing she did! With her went the old grand¬ 
mother whom she loved next the good God. They 
went slowly, she was so old, and one of the officers 
who guarded them had pity on the pretty girl, and 
said to her as they were a little apart from the rest, 


168 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


‘ Come, you are young and can run. I will save you; 
it is a pity so fine a little girl be shot.’ 

“ Then she was glad and thanked him much, say¬ 
ing, ‘And the grandmother also? You will save her 
with me ? ’ ‘ It is impossible,’ says the officer. ‘ She 

is too old to run. I can save but one, and her life is 
nearly over; let her go, and do you fly into the next 
wood. I will not betray you, and when we come up 
with the gang it will be too late to find you.’ 

“ Then the great temptation of Satan came to this 
girl. She had no wish to suffer, but she could not 
leave the good old grandmere to die alone. She 
wept, she prayed, and the saints gave her courage. 

“ ‘ No, I will not go,’ she said; and in the morning at 
St. Malo she was shot with the old mother in her arms.” 

“ Could you do that for your grandmere ? ” I once 
asked, as she stopped for breath, because this tale 
always excited her. She crossed herself devoutly, 
and answered with fire in her eyes and a resolute 
gesture of her little brown hands, — 

“ I should try, mademoiselle.” 

I think she would, and succeed, too, for she was a 


LITTLE MARIE OF LEIION. 


169 


brave and tender-hearted child, as she soon after 
proved. 

A long drought parched the whole country that 
summer, and the gardens suffered much, especially 
the little plats in Lehon, for most of them were on 
the steep hillside behind the huts, and unless it 
rained water had to he carried up from the stream 
below. The cabbages and onions on which these 
poor people depend, when fresh salads are gone, 
were dying in the baked earth, and a hard winter 
was before them if this little store failed. 

The priests prayed for rain in the churches, and 
long processions streamed out of the gates to visit 
the old stone cross called the “ Croix de Saint Esprit,” 
and, kneeling there in crowds, the people implored 
the blessing of rain to save their harvest. We felt 
great pity for them, but liked little Marie’s way of 
praying best. 

She did not come one morning, but sent her brother, 
who only laughed, and said Marie had hurt her foot, 
when we inquired for her. Anxious to know if she 
was really ill we went to see her in the afternoon, 


170 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


and heard a pretty little story of practical Chris¬ 
tianity. 

Marie lay asleep on her mother’s bed in the wall, 
and her father, sitting by her, told the tale in a low 
voice, pausing now and then to look at her, as if his 
little daughter had done something to be proud of. 

It seems that in the village there was an old woman, 
frightfully disfigured by fire, and not quite sane as the 
people thought. She was harmless, but never showed 
herself by day, and only came out at night to work 
in her garden or take the air. Many of the ignorant 
peasants feared her, however, for the country abounds 
in fairy legends, and strange tales of ghosts and gob¬ 
lins. But the more charitable left bread at her door, 
and took in return the hose she knit or the thread 
she spun. 

During the drought it was observed that her gar¬ 
den, though the steepest and stoniest, was never 
dry; her cabbages flourished when her neighbors’ 
withered, and her onions stood up green and tall 
as if some special rain-spirit watched over them. 
People wondered and shook their heads, but could 


LITTLE MARIE OF LEIION. 


171 


not explain it, for Mother Lobineau was too infirm 
to carry much water up the steep path, and who 
would help her unless some of her own goblin 
friends did it? 

* 

This idea was suggested by the story of a peasant 
returning late at night, who had seen something 
white flitting to and fro in the garden-patch, and 
when he called to it saw it vanish most mysteriously. 
This made quite a stir in the town; others watched 
also, saw the white phantom in the starlight, and 
could not tell where it went when it vanished 
behind the chestnut trees on the hill, till one man, 
braver than the rest, hid himself behind these trees 
and discovered the mystery. The sprite was Marie, 
in her little shift, who stepped out of the window of 
the loft where she slept on to a bough of the tree, 
and thence to the hill, for the house was built so 
close against the bank that it was “ but a step from 
garret to garden,” as they say in Morlaix. 

In trying to escape from this inquisitive neighbor, 
Marie hurt her foot, but was caught, and confessed that 
it was she who went at night to water poor Mother 


172 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


Lobineau’s cabbages; because if they failed the old 
woman might starve, and no one else remembered 
her destitute and helpless state. 

The good-hearted people were much touched 
by this silent sermon on loving one’s neighbor as 
one’s self, and Marie was called the “little saint,” 
and tended carefully by all the good women. Just 
as the story ended, she woke up, and at first seemed 
inclined to hide under the bedclothes. But we had 
her out in a minute, and presently she was laughing 
over her good deed, with a true child’s enjoyment 
of a bit of roguery, saying in her simple way, — 

“Yes; it was so droll to go running about en 
chemise , like the girl in the tale of the ‘ Midsummer 
Eve,’ where she pulls the Saint Johnswort flower, 
and has her wish to hear all the creatures talk. I 
liked it much, and Yvon slept so like the dormouse 
that he never heard me creep in and out. It was 
hard to bring much water, but the poor cabbages 
were so glad, and Mother Lobineau felt that all had 
not forgotten her.” 

We took care that little Saint Marie was not 


LITTLE MARIE OF LEHON. 


173 


forgotten, but quite well, and all ready for her con¬ 
firmation when the day came. This is a pretty sight, 
and for her sake we went to the old church of St. 
Sauveur to see it. It was a bright spring day, and 
the gardens were full of early flowers, the quaint 
streets gay with proud fathers and mothers in holi¬ 
day dress, and flocks of strangers pausing to see the 
long procession of little girls with white caps and 
veils, gloves and gowns, prayer-books and rosaries, 
winding through the sunny square into the shadowy 
church with chanting and candles, garlands and 
crosses. 

The old priest was too ill to perform the service, 
but the young one who took his place announced, 
after it was over, that if they would pass the house 
the good old man would bless them from his bal¬ 
cony. That was the best of all, and a sweet sight, 
as the feeble, fatherly old priest leaned from his 
easy-chair to stretch his trembling hands over the 
little flock so like a bed of snowdrops, while the 
bright eyes and rosy faces looked reverently up at 
bim, and the fresh voices chanted the responses 


174 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


as the curly heads under the long veils bowed and 
passed by. 

We learned afterward that our Marie had been 
called in and praised for her secret charity, — a great 
honor, because the good priest was much beloved 
by all his flock, and took a most paternal interest 
in the little ones. 

That was almost the last we saw of our little 
friend, for we left Dinan soon after, bidding the 
Lehon family good-by, and leaving certain warm 
souvenirs for winter-time. Marie cried and clung 
to us at parting, then smiled like an April day, and 
waved her hand as we went away, never expecting 
to see her any more. 

But the next morning, just as we were stepping 
on board the steamer to go down the Ranee to St. 
Malo, we saw a little white cap come bobbing 
through the market-place, down the steep street, 
and presently Marie appeared with two great 
bunches of pale yellow primroses and wild blue 
hyacinths in one hand, while the other held her 
sabots that she might run the faster. Rosy and 


LITTLE MARIE OF LEHON. 


175 


smiling and breathless with haste she came racing 
up to us, crying, — 

“ Behold my souvenir for the dear ladies. I do 
not cry now. No; I am glad the day is so fine. 
Bon voyage ! bon voyage ! ” 

We thanked and kissed and left her on the shore, 
bravely trying not to cry, as she waved her wooden 
shoes and kissed her hand till we were out of sight, 
and had nothing but the soft colors and sweet 
breath of our nosegays to remind us of Littk Marie 
of Lehon. 


176 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


MY MAY-DAY AMONG CURIOUS BIRDS 

AND BEASTS. 

"OEING alone in London, yet wishing to celebrate 
the day, I decided to pay my respects to the 
lions at the the Zoological Gardens. A lovely place 
it was, and I enjoyed myself immensely; for May- 
day in England is just what it should be, mild, 
sunny, flowery, and spring-like. As I walked along 
the well-kept paths, between white and rosy haw¬ 
thorn hedges, I kept coming upon new and curious 
sights; for the birds and beasts are so skilfully 
arranged, that it is more like travelling through a 
strange and pleasant country than visiting a men¬ 
agerie. 

The first thing I saw was a great American bison; 
and I was so glad to meet with any one from home, 
that I’d have patted him with pleasure, if he had 
shown any cordiality toward me. He didn’t, how¬ 
ever, but stared savagely with his fiery eyes, and put 


MAY-DAY AMONG BIRDS AND BEASTS. 177 


down his immense head with a sullen snort, as if 
he’d have tossed me with great satisfaction. I did 
not blame him, for the poor fellow was homesick, 
doubtless, for his own wide prairies and the free life 
he had lost. So I threw him some fresh clover, and 
went on to the pelicans. 

I never knew before what handsome birds they 
were; not graceful, but with such snowy plumage, 
tinged with pale pink and faint yellow. They had 
just had their bath, and stood arranging their feathers 
with their great bills, uttering a queer cry now and 
then, and nodding to one another sociably. When 
fed, they gobbled up the fish, never stopping to swal¬ 
low it till the pouches under their bills were full; 
then they leisurely emptied them, and seemed to 
enjoy their lunch with the grave deliberation of reg¬ 
ular Englishmen. 

Being in a hurry to see the lions, I went on to the 
long row of cages, and there found a splendid sight. 
Six lions and lionesses, in three or four different 
cages, sitting or standing in dignified attitudes, and 
ejdng the spectators with a mild expression in their 

12 


178 


AUNT JO'S SCRAP-BAG. 


fine eyes. One lioness was ill, and lay on her bed, 
looking very pensive, while her mate moved restlessly 
about her, evidently anxious to do something for her, 
and much afflicted by her suffering. I liked this lion 
very much, for, though the biggest, he was very 
gentle, and had a noble face. 

The tigers were rushing about, as tigers usually 
are; some creeping noiselessly to and fro, some leap¬ 
ing up and down, and some washing their faces with 
their velvet paws. All looked and acted so like cats, 
that I wasn’t at all surprised to hear one of them purr 
when the keeper scratched her head. It was a very 
loud and large purr, but no fireside pussy could have 
done it better, and every one laughed at the sound. 

There were pretty spotted leopards, panthers, and 
smaller varieties of the same species. I sat watch¬ 
ing them a long time, longing to let some of the 
wild things out for a good run, they seemed so un¬ 
happy barred in those small dens. 

Suddenly the lions began to roar, the tigers to 
snarl, and all to get very much excited about some¬ 
thing, sniffing at the openings, thrusting their paws 


MAY-DAY AMONG BIRDS AND BEASTS. 179 


through the bars, and lashing their tails impatiently. 
I couldn’t imagine what the trouble was, till, far down 
the line, I saw a man with a barrow full of lumps of 
raw meat. This was their dinner; and, as they were 
fed but once a day, they were ravenous. Such roars 
and howls and cries as arose, while the man went 
slowly down the line, gave one a good idea of the 
sounds to be heard in Indian forests and jungles. 
The lions behaved best, for they only paced up and 
down, with an occasional cry; but the tigers were 
quite frantic; for they tumbled one over the other, 
shook the cages, and tried to reach the bystanders, 
just out of reach behind the bar that kept us at a 
safe distance. One lady had a fright, for the wind 
blew the end of her shawl within reach of a tiger’s 
great claw, and he clutched it, trying to drag her 
nearer. The shawl came off, and the poor lady ran 
away screaming, as if a whole family of wild beasts 
were after her. 

When the lumps of meat were thrown in, it was 
curious to see how differently the animals behaved. 
The tigers snarled and fought and tore and got 


180 


AUNT JO'S SCRAP-BAG. 


so savage I was very grateful that they were safely 
shut up. In a few minutes, nothing but white bones 
remained, and then they howled for more. One 
little leopard was better bred than the others, for he 
went up on a shelf in the cage, and ate his dinner 
in a quiet, proper manner, which was an example to 
the rest. 

The lions ate in dignified silence, all but my 
favorite, who carried his share to his sick mate, and 
by every gentle means in his power tried to make 
her eat. She was too ill, however, and turned away 
with a plaintive moan which seemed to grieve 
him sadly. He wouldn’t touch his dinner, but lay 
down near her, with the lump between his paws, as 
if guarding it for her; and there I l^ft him patiently 
waiting, in spite of his hunger, till his mate could 
share it with him. As I took a last look at his fine 
old face, I named him Douglas, and walked away, 
humming to myself the lines of the ballad, — 

“Douglas, Douglas, 

Tender and true.” 

As a contrast to the wild beasts, I went to see the 


MAY-DAY AMONG BIRDS AND BEASTS. 181 


monkeys who lived in a fine large house, all to them¬ 
selves. Here was every variety, from the great 
ugly chimpanzee to the funny little fellows who 
played like boys, and cut up all sorts of capers. A 
mamma sat tending her baby, and looking so like 
a little old woman that I laughed till the gray 
monkey with the blue nose scolded at me. He was 
a cross old party, and sat huddled up in the straw, 
scowling at every one, like an ill-tempered old 
bachelor. Half a dozen little ones teased him cap¬ 
itally by dropping bits of bread, nut-shells, and 
straws down on him from above, as they climbed 
about the perches or swung by their tails. One 
poor little chap had lost the curly end of his tail, — 
I’m afraid the gray one bit it off, — and kept trying 
to swing like the others, forgetting that the strong, 
curly end was what he held on with. He would 
run up the bare boughs, and give a jump, expecting 
to catch and swing, but the lame tail wouldn’t hold 
him, and down he’d go, bounce on to the straw. 
At first he’d sit and stare about him, as if much 
amazed to find himself there j then he’d scratch his 


182 


AUNT JO'S SCRAP-BAG. 


little round head, and begin to scold violently, which 
seemed to delight the other monkeys; and finally, 
he’d examine his poor little tail, and appear to 
understand the misfortune which had befallen him. 
The funny expression of his face was irresistible, 
and I enjoyed seeing him very much, and gave him 
a bun to comfort him when I went away. 

The snake-house came next, and I went in, on my 
way to visit the rhinoceros family. I rather like 
snakes, since I had a tame green one, who lived 
under the doorstep, and would come out and play 
with me on sunny days. These snakes I found very 
interesting, only they got under their blankets and 
wouldn’t come out, and I wasn’t allowed to poke 
them; so I missed seeing several of the most curious. 
An ugly cobra laid and blinked at me through the 
glass, looking quite as dangerous as he was. There 
were big and little snakes, — black, brown, and 
speckled, lively and lazy, pretty and plain ones, — 
but I liked the great boa best. 

When I came to his cage, I didn’t see any thing 
but the branch of a .free- such as I had seen in other 


MAY-DAY AMONG BIRDS AND BEASTS. 183 


cages, for the snakes to wind up and down. “ Where 
is he, I wonder ? I hope he hasn’t got out,” I said to 
myself, thinking of a story I read once of a person 
in a menagerie, who turned suddenly and saw a 
great boa gliding toward him. As I stood wonder¬ 
ing if the big worm could be under the little flat 
blanket before me, the branch began to move all at 
once, and with a start, I saw a limb swing down 
to stare at me with the boa’s glittering eyes. He 
was so exactly the color of the bare bough, and lay 
so still, I had not seen him till he came to take a 
look at me. A very villainous looking reptile he 
was, and I felt grateful that I didn’t live in a country 
where such unpleasant neighbors might pop in upon 
you unexpectedly. He was kind enough to take a 
promenade and show me his size, which seemed 
immense, as he stretched himself, and then knotted 
his rough, grayish body into a great loop, with the 
fiery-eyed head in the middle. He was not one of 
the largest kind, but I was quite satisfied, and 
left him to his dinner of rabbits, which I hadn’t the 
heart to stay and see him devour alive. 


184 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


I was walking toward the camel’s pagoda, when, 
all of a sudden a long, dark, curling thing came over 
my shoulder, and I felt warm breath in my face. 
“ It’s the boa! ” I thought, and gave a skip which 
carried me into the hedge, where I stuck, much to 
the amusement of some children riding on the ele¬ 
phant whose trunk had frightened me. He had 
politely tried to tell me to clear the way, which I 
certainly had done with all speed. Picking myself 
out of the hedge, I walked beside him, examining 
his clumsy feet, and peering up at his small, intel¬ 
ligent eye. I’m very sure he winked at me, as if 
enjoying the joke, and kept poking his trunk into 
my pocket, hoping to find something eatable. 

I felt as if I had got into a foreign country as 
I looked about me and saw elephants and camels 
walking among the trees; flocks of snow-white 
cranes stalking over the grass, on their long scarlet 
legs; striped zebras racing in their paddock; queer 
kangaroos hopping about, with little ones in their 
pouches; pretty antelopes chasing one another; 
and, in an immense wire-covered aviary, all sorts 


MAY-DAY AMONG BIRDS AND BEASTS. 185 


of brilliant birds were flying about, as gaily as if at 
home. 

One of the curiosities was a sea-cow, who lived in 
a tank of salt water, and came at the keeper’s call 
to kiss him, and flounder on its flippers along the 
margin of the tank after a fish. It was very like 
a seal, only much larger, and had four fins instead 
of two. Its eyes were lovely, so dark and soft and 
liquid; but its mouth was not pretty, and I declined 
one of the damp kisses which it was ready to dis¬ 
pense at word of command. 

The great polar bear lived next door, and spent 
his time splashing in and out of a pool of water, or 
sitting on a block of ice, panting, as if the mild 
spring day was blazing midsummer. He looked 
very unhappy, and I thought it a pity that they 
didn’t invent a big refrigerator for him. 

These are not half of the wonderful creatures I 
saw, but I have not room to tell more; only I 
advise all who can to pay a visit to the Zoological 
Gardens when they go to London, for it is one of 
the most interesting sights in that fine old city. 


136 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG . 


OUR LITTLE NEWSBOY. 


T TURRYING to catch a certain car at a certain 
corner late one stormy night, I was suddenly 
arrested by the sight of a queer-looking bundle 
lying in a door-way. 

“ Bless my heart, it’s a child! O John! I’m afraid 
he’s frozen! ” I exclaimed to my brother, as we both 
bent over the bundle. 

Such a little fellow as he was, in the big, ragged 
coat, such a tired, baby face, under the fuzzy cap, 
such a purple, little hand, still holding fast a few 
papers; such a pathetic sight altogether, was the 
boy, lying on the stone step, with the snow drifting 
over him, that it was impossible to go by. 

“ He is asleep; but he’ll freeze, if left so long. 
Here! wake up, my boy, and go home, as fast as you 
can,” cried John, with a gentle shake, and a very 
gentle voice; for the memory of a dear little lad, 


OUR LITTLE NEWSBOY. 


187 


safely tucked up at home, made him fatherly kind 
to the small vagabond. 

The moment he was touched, the boy tumbled 
up, and, before he was half awake, began his usual 
cry, with an eye to business. 

“ Paper, sir ? 1 Herald ! ’ ‘ Transkip! ’ Last 

a great gape swallowed up the “ last edition,” and he 
stood blinking at us like a very chilly young owl. 

“ I’ll buy ’em all if you’ll go home, my little 
chap; it’s high time you were abed,” said John, 
whisking the damp papers into one pocket, and his 
purse out of another, as he spoke. 

“ All of ’em ? — why, there’s six! ” croaked the 
boy, for he was as hoarse as a raven. 

“Never mind, I can kindle the fire with ’em. Put 
that in your pocket; and trot home, my man, as fast 
as possible.” 

“ Where do you live ? ” I asked, picking up the 
fifty cents that fell from the little fingers, too be¬ 
numbed to hold it. 

“ Mills Court, out of Hanover. Cold, ain’t it ? ” 
6aid the boy, blowing on his purple hands, and hop- 



188 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


ping feebly from one leg to the other, to take the 
stiffness out. 

“ He can’t go all that way in this storm, — such a 
mite, and so used up with cold and sleep, John.” 

“Of course he can’t; we’ll put him in a car,” 
began John ; when the boy wheezed out, — 

“No; I’ve got ter wait for Sam. He’ll be along 
as soon’s the theatre’s done. He said he would; 
and so I’m waitin’.” 

“ Who is Sam ? ” I asked. 

“He’s the feller I lives with. I ain’t got any 
folks, and he takes care o’ me.” 

“ Nice care, indeed; leaving a baby like you to 
wait for him here such a night as this,” I said 
crossly. 

“ Oh, he’s good to me Sam is, though he does 
knock me round sometimes, when I ain’t spry. The 
big fellers shoves me back, you see ; and I gets cold, 
and can’t sing out loud; so I don’t sell my papers, 
and has to work ’em off late.” 

“ Hear the child talk ! One would think ho was 
sixteen, instead of six,” I said, half laughing. 


OUR LITTLE NEWSBOY. 


189 


“ I’m ’most ten. Hi! ain’t that a oner ? ” cried 
the boy, as a gust of sleet slapped him in the face, 
when he peeped to see if Sam was coming. “ Hullo! 
the lights is out! Why, the play’s done, and the 
folks gone, and Sam’s forgot me.” 

It was very evident that Sam had forgotten his 
little protege; and a strong desire to shake Sam 
possessed me. 

“Ho use waitin’ any longer; and now my papers 
is sold, I ain’t afraid to go home,” said the boy, 
stepping down like a little old man with the rheu¬ 
matism, and preparing to trudge away through the 
storm. 

“ Stop a bit, my little Casabianca; a car will be 
along in fifteen minutes; and while waiting you can 
warm yourself over there,” said John, with the 
purple hand in his. 

“ My name’s Jack Hill, not Cassy Banks, please, 
sir,” said the little party, with dignity. 

“ Have you had your supper, Mr. Hill ? ” asked 
John laughing. 

“I had some peanuts, and two sucks of Joe’s 
orange; but it warn’t very fillin’,” he said, gravely. 


190 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 



a I should think not. Her4 i one stew; and be 
quick, please,” cried John, as we sat down in a warm 
corner of the confectioner’s opposite. 

While little Jack shovelled in the hot oysters, 
with his eyes shutting up now and then, in spite of 
himself, we looked at him, and thought again of 
little Rosy-face at home, safe in his warm nest, with 
mother-love watching over him. Nodding toward 
the ragged, grimy, forlorn, little creature, drop¬ 
ping asleep over his supper like a tired baby, I 
said, — 

“ Can you imagine our Freddy out alone at this 
hour, trying to 1 work off’ his papers, because afraid 
to go home till he has ? ” 

“I’d rather not try,” answered brother John, 
winking hard, as he stroked the little head beside 
him, which, by the by, looked very like a ragged, 
yellow door mat. I think brother John winked hard, 
but I can’t be sure, for I know I did; and for a 
minute there seemed to be a dozen little newsboys 
dancing before my eyes. 

“ There goes our car; and it’s the last,” said John, 
looking at me. 


OUR LITTLE NEWSBOY. 


191 


“ Let it go, but don’t leave the boy; ” and I 
frowned at John for hinting such a thing. 

“Here is his car. How, my lad, bolt your last 
oyster, and come on.” 

“ Good-night, ma’am! thankee, sir! ” croaked the 
grateful little voice, as the child was caught up in 
J ohn’s strong hands and set down on the car-step. 

With a word to the conductor, and a small busi¬ 
ness transaction, we left Jack coiled up in a corner, 
to finish his nap as tranquilly as if it wasn’t mid¬ 
night, and a “knocking round” might not await 
him at his journey’s end. 

We didn’t mind the storm much, as we plodded 
home; and when I told the story to Rosy-face, next 
day, his interest quite reconciled me to the sniffs 
and sneezes of a bad cold. 

“If I saw that poor little boy, Aunt Jo, I’d 
love him lots!” said Freddy, with a world of pity 
in his beautiful child’s eyes. 

And, believing that others also would be kind to 
little Jack, and such as he, I tell the story. 

When busy fathers hurry home at night, I hope 

k 


192 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


they’ll buy their papers of the small boys, who get 
“ shoved back ; ” the feeble ones, who grow hoarse, 
and can’t “ sing out; ” the shabby ones, who, evi¬ 
dently, have only forgetful Sams to care for them; 
and the hungry-looking ones, who don’t get what is 
“ fillin’.” For love of the little sons and daughters 
safe at home, say a kind word, buy a paper, even if 
you don’t want it; and never pass by, leaving them 
to sleep forgotten in the streets at midnight, with 
no pillow but a stone, no coverlet but the pitiless 
snow, and not even a tender-hearted robin to drop 
leaves over them. 


PATTY’S PATCHWORK. 


193 


PATTY’S PATCHWORK. 

T PERFECTLY hate it! and something dreadful 
A ought to be done to the woman who invented 
it,” said Patty, in a pet, sending a shower of gay 
pieces flying over the carpet as if a small whirlwind 
and a rainbow had got into a quarrel. 

Puss did not agree with Patty, for, after a sur¬ 
prised hop when the flurry came, she calmly laid 
herself down on a red square, purring comfortably 
and winking her yellow eyes, as if she thanked the 
little girl for the bright bed that set off her white fur 
so prettily. This cool performance made Patty 
laugh and say more pleasantly, — 

“ Well, it is tiresome, isn’t it, Aunt Pen ? ” 

“ Sometimes; but we all have to make patchwork, 
my dear, and do the best we can with the pieces 
given us.” 

“Do we?” and Patty opened her eyes in great 
astonishment at this new idea. 


13 


194 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


“ Our lives are patchwork, and it depends on us a 
good deal how the bright and dark bits get put to¬ 
gether so that the whole is neat, pretty, and useful 
when it is done,” said Aunt Pen soberly. 

“ Deary me, now she is going to preach,” thought 
Patty ; but she rather liked Aunt Pen’s preachments, 
for a good deal of fun got mixed up with the moral¬ 
izing ; and she was so good herself that children could 
never say in their naughty little minds, “You are 
just as bad as we, so you needn’t talk to us, ma’am.” 

“I gave you that patchwork to see what you 
would make of it, and it is as good as a diary to me, 
for I can tell by the different squares how you fel* 
when you made them,” continued Aunt Pen, with a 
twinkle in her eye as she glanced at the many-col¬ 
ored bits on the carpet. 

“Can you truly? just try and see,” and Patty 
looked interested at once. 

Pointing with the yard-measure, Aunt Pen said, 
gapping a certain dingy, puckered, brown and purplo 
square, — 

“ That is a bad day; don’t it look so ? ” 


PATTY’S PATCHWORK . 


195 


“Well, it was, 1 do declare! for that was the Mon¬ 
day piece, when every thing went wrong and I didn’t 
care how my work looked,” cried Patty, surprised at 
Aunt Pen’s skill in reading the calico diary. 

“ This pretty pink and white one so neatly sewed 
is a good day; this funny mixture of red, blue, and 
yellow with the big stitches is a merry day; that one 
with spots on it is one that got cried over; this with 
the gay flowers is a day full of good little plans and 
resolutions; and that one made of dainty bits, all 
stars and dots and tiny leaves, is the one you made 
when you were thinking about the dear new baby 
there at home.” 

“ Why, Aunt Pen, you are a fairy! How did you 
know? they truly are just as you say, as near as I 
can remember. I rather like that sort of patchwork,” 
and Patty sat down upon the floor to collect, exam¬ 
ine, and arrange her discarded work with a new in¬ 
terest in it. 

“ I see what is going on, and I have queer plays in 
my mind just as you little folks do. Suppose you 
make this a moral bed-quilt as some people make 


196 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


album quilts. See how much patience, persever¬ 
ance, good nature, and industry you can put into it. 
Every bit will have a lesson or a story, and when 
you lie under it you will find it a real comforter,” 
said Aunt Pen, who wanted to amuse the child and 
teach her something better even than the good old- 
fashioned accomplishment of needlework. 

“ I don’t see how I can put that sort of thing into 
it,” answered Patty, as she gently lifted puss into 
her lap, instead of twitching the red bit roughly from 
under her. 

“ There goes a nice little piece of kindness this 
very minute,” laughed Aunt Pen, pointing to the 
cat and the red square. 

Patty laughed also, and looked pleased as she 
stroked Mother Bunch, while she said thought¬ 
fully, — 

“I see what you mean now. I am making two 
kinds of patchwork at the same time; and this that 
I see is to remind me of the other kind that I don’t 
see.” 

“ Every task, no matter how small or homely, that 


PATTY'S PATCHWORK. 


197 


gets well and cheerfully done, is a fine thing; and 
the sooner we learn to use up the dark and bright 
bits (the pleasures and pains, the cares and duties) 
into a cheerful, useful life, the sooner we become 
real comforters, and every one likes to cuddle about 
us. Don’t you see, deary ? ” 

“ That’s what you are, Aunt Pen; ” and Patty put 
up her hand to hold fast by that other strong, kind, 
helpful hand that did so much, yet never was tired, 
cold, or empty. 

Aunt Pen took the chubby little one in both her 
own, and said, smiling, yet with meaning in her eyes, 
as she tapped the small forefinger, rough with impa¬ 
tient and unskilful sewing, — 

“ Shall we try and see what a nice little comforter 
we can make this month, while you wait to be called 
home to see mamma and the dear new baby ? ” 

“ Yes, I’d like to try; ” and Patty gave Aunt 
Pen’s hand a hearty shake, for she wanted to be 
good, and rather thought the new fancy would lend 
a charm to the task which we all find rather tiro, 
some and hard. 


198 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


So the bargain was made, and the patch Patty 
sewed that day was beautiful to behold; for she was 
in a delightfully moral state of mind, and felt quite 
sure that she was going to become a model for all 
children to follow, if they could. The next day her 
ardor had cooled a little, and being in a hurry to go 
out to play, she slighted her work, thinking no one 
would know. But the third day she got so angry 
with her patch that she tore it in two, and declared 
it was all nonsense to fuss about being good and 
thorough and all the rest of it. 

Aunt Pen did not say much, but made her mend 
and finish her patch and add it to the pile. After 
she went to bed that night Patty thought of it, and 
wished she could do it over, it looked so badly. But 
as it could not be, she had a penitent fit, and resolved 
to keep her temper while she sewed, at any rate, for 
mamma was to see the little quilt when it was done, 
and would want to know all about it. 

Of course she did not devote herself to being good 
all the time, but spent her days in lessons, play, mis¬ 
chief, and fun, like any other lively, ten-year-older. 


PATTY’S PATCHWORK. 


199 


But somehow, whenever the sewing-hour came, she 
remembered that talk; and as she worked she fell 
into the way of wondering whether Aunt Pen could 
guess from the patches what sort of days she had 
passed. She wanted to try and see, but Aunt Pen 
refused to read any more calico till the quilt was 
done: then, she said in a queer, solemn way, she 
should make the good and bad days appear in a 
remarkable manner. 

This puzzled Patty very much, and she quite 
ached to know what the joke would be; meantime 
the pile grew steadily, and every day, good or bad, 
added to that other work called Patty’s life. She 
did not think much about that part of it, but uncon¬ 
sciously the quiet sewing-time had its influence on 
her, and that little “ conscience hour,” as she some¬ 
times called it, helped her very much. 

One day she said to herself as she took up her 
work, “Now I’ll puzzle Aunt Pen. She thinks my 
naughty tricks get into the patches; but I’ll make 
this very nicely and have it gay, and then I don’t 
see how she will ever guess what I did this morn- 

• Y) 

ing. 


200 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


Now you must know that Tweedle-dee the can¬ 
ary, was let out every day to fly about the room 
and enjoy himself. Mother Bunch never tried to 
catch him, though he often hopped temptingly near 
her. He was a droll little bird, and Patty liked to 
watch his promenades, for he did funny things. 
That day he had made her laugh by trying to fly 
away with a shawl, picking up the fringe with 
which to line the nest he was always trying to build. 
It was so heavy he tumbled on his back and lay 
kicking and pulling, but had to give it up and con¬ 
tent himself with a bit of thread. 

Patty was forbidden to chase or touch him at 
these times, but always felt a strong desire to have 
just one grab at him and see how he felt. That day, 
being alone in the dining-room, she found it impos¬ 
sible to resist; and when Tweedle-dee came trip¬ 
ping pertly over the table-cloth, cocking his head 
on one side with shrill chirps and little prancings, 
she caught him, and for a minute held him fast in 
spite of his wrathful pecking. 

She put her thimble on his head, laughing to see 


PATTY’S PATCHWORK. 


201 


how funny he looked, and just then he slipped out 
of her hand. She clutched at him, missed him, but 
alas, alas! he left his little tail behind him. Every 
feather in his blessed little tail, I do assure you; 
and there sat Patty with the yellow plumes in her 
hand and dismay in her face. Poor Tweedle-dee 
retired to his cage much afflicted, and sung no more 
that day, but Patty hid the lost tail and never said 
a word about it. 

“ Aunt Pen is so near-sighted she won’t mind, and 
maybe he will have another tail pretty soon, or she 
will think he is moulting. If she asks of course I 
shall tell her.” 

Patty settled it in that way, forgetting that the 
slide was open and Aunt Pen in the kitchen. So 
she made a neat blue and buff patch, and put it 
away, meaning to puzzle aunty when the reading¬ 
time came. But Patty got the worst of it, as you 
will see by and by. 

Another day she strolled into the store-room and 
saw a large tray of fresh buns standing there. Now, 
it was against the rule to eat between meals, and 


202 


AUNT JO'S SCRAP-BAG. 


new hot bread or cake was especially forbidden. 
Patty remembered both these things, but could not 
resist temptation. One plump, brown bun, with a 
lovely plum right in the middle, was so fascinating 
it was impossible to let it alone; so Patty whipped 
it into her pocket, ran to the garden, and hiding 
behind the big lilac-bush, ate it in a great hurry. 
It was just out of the oven, and so hot it burned 
her throat, and lay like a live coal in her little 
stomach after it was down, making her very uncom¬ 
fortable for several hours. 

“ Why do you keep sighing ? ” asked Aunt Pen, as 
Patty sat down to her work. 

“ I don’t feel very well ” 

“You have eaten something that disagrees with 
you. Did you eat hot biscuits tor breakfast ? ” 

“No, ma’am, I never do,” and Patty gave another 
little gasp, for the bun lay very heavily on both 
stomach and conscience just then. 

“ A drop or two of ammonia will set you right,” 
and Aunt Pen gave her some. It did set the stomach 
right, but the conscience still worried her, for she 


PATTY’S PATCHWORK. 


203 


could not make up her mind to “ fess” the sly, greedy 
thing she had done. 

“Put a white patch in the middle of those green 
ones,” said Aunt Pen, as Patty sat soberly sewing 
her daily square. 

“ Why ? ” asked the little girl, for aunty seldom 
interfered in her arrangement of the quilt. 

“It will look pretty, and match the other three 
squares that are going at the corners of that middle 
piece ” 

“Well, I will,” and Patty sewed away,wondering 
at this sudden interest in her work, and why Aunt 
Pen laughed to herself as she put away the ammonia 
bottle. 

These are two of the naughty little things that 
got worked into the quilt; but there were good ones 
also, and Aunt Pen’s sharp eyes saw them all. 

At the window of a house opposite Patty often 
saw a little girl who sat there playing with an old 
doll or a tom book. She never seemed to run about 
or go out, and Patty often wondered if she was sick, 
she looked so thin and sober, and was so quiet. 


204 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


Patty began by making faces at her for fun, but the 
little girl only smiled back, and nodded so good- 
naturedly that Patty was ashamed of herself. 

“ Is that girl over there poor ? ” she asked suddenly 
as she watched her one day. 

“Very poor: her mother takes in sewing, and the 
child is lame,” answered Aunt Pen, without looking 
up from the letter she was writing. 

“ Her doll is nothing but an old shawl tied round 
with a string, and she don’t seem to have but one 
book. Wonder if she’d like to have me come 
and play with her,” said Patty to herself, as she 
stood her own big doll in the window, and nodded 
back at the girl who bobbed up and down in her 
chair with delight at this agreeable prospect. 

“You can go and see her some day if you like,” 
said Aunt Pen, scribbling away. 

Patty said no more then, but later in the afternoon 
she remembered this permission, and resolved to try 
if aunty would find out her good doings as well as 
her bad ones. So, tucking Blanche Augusta Arabella 
Maud under one arm, her best picture-book under 


PA TTY J PA TCH WORK. 


205 


the other, and gathering a little nosegay of her own 
flowers, she slipped across the road, knocked, and 
marched boldly upstairs. 

Mrs. Brown, the sewing-woman, was out, and no 
one there but Lizzie in her chair at the window, 
looking lonely and forlorn. 

“ How do you do ? My name is Patty, and I live 
over there, and I’ve come to play with you,” said 
one child in a friendly tone. 

“ How do you do ? My name is Lizzie, and I’m 
very glad to see you. What a lovely doll! ” returned 
the other child gratefully; and then the ceremony 
of introduction was over, and they began to play as 
if they had known each other for ever so long. 

To poor Lizzie it seemed as if a little fairy had 
suddenly appeared to brighten the dismal room with 
flowers and smiles and pretty things; while Patty 
felt her pity and good-will increase as she saw Liz¬ 
zie’s crippled feet, and watched her thin face brighten 
and glow with interest and delight over book and 
doll and posy. “ It felt good,” as Patty said after¬ 
ward ; “ sort of warm and comfortable in my heart, 


206 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


and I liked it ever so much.” She stayed an hour, 
making sunshine in a shady place, and then ran 
home, wondering if Aunt Pen would find that out. 

She found her sitting with her hands before her, 
and such a sad look in her face that Patty ran to her, 
saying anxiously, — 

“ What’s the matter, aunty ? Are you sick ? ” 

“No, dear; but I have sorrowful news for you. 
Come sit in my lap and let me tell you as gently as 
I can.” 

“ Mamma is dead! ” cried Patty, with a look of 
terror in her rosy face. 

“ No, thank God! but the dear, new baby only 
stayed a week, and we shall never see her in this 
world.” 

With a cry of sorrow Patty threw herself into the 
arms outstretched to her, and on Aunt Pen’s loving 
bosom sobbed away the first bitterness of her grief 
and disappointment. 

“ Oh, I wanted a little sister so much, and I was 
going to be so fond of her, and was so glad she 
came, and now 1 can’t see or have her even for a 


PATTY'S PATCHWORK. 


207 


day! I’m so disappointed I don’t think I can bear 
it,” sobbed Patty. 

“ Think of poor mamma, and bear it bravely for 
her sake,” whispered Aunt Pen, wiping away her 
own and Patty’s tears. 

“Oh, dear me! there’s the pretty quilt I was 
going to make for baby, and now it isn’t any use, 
and I can’t bear to finish it; ” and Patty broke out 
afresh at the thought of so much love’s labor lost. 

“ Mamma will love to see it, so I wouldn’t give it 
up. Work is the best cure for sorrow; and I think 
you never will be sorry you tried it. Let us put a 
bright bit of submission with this dark trouble, and 
work both into your little life as patiently as we can, 
deary.” 

Patty put up her trembling lips, and kissed Aunt 
Pen, grateful for the tender sympathy and the help¬ 
ful words. “I’ll try,” was all she said; and then 
they sat talking quietly together about the dear, 
dead baby, who only stayed long enough to make a 
place in every one’s heart, and leave them aching 
when she went. 


208 


AUNT JO'S SCRAP-BAG. 


Patty did try to bear her first trouble bravely, 
and got on very well after the first day or two, 
except when the sewing-hour came. Then the sight 
of the pretty patchwork recalled the memory of the 
cradle it was meant to cover, and reminded her that 
it was empty now. Many quiet tears dropped on 
Patty’s work; and sometimes she had to put it down 
and sob, for she had longed so for a little sister it 
was very hard to give her up, and put away all the 
loving plans she had made for the happy time when 
baby came. A great many tender little thoughts and 
feelings got sewed into the gay squares; and if a small 
stain showed here and there, I think they only added 
to its beauty in the eyes of those who knew what 
made them. Aunt Pen never suggested picking out 
certain puckered bits and grimy stitches, for she 
knew that just there the little fingers trembled, and 
the blue eyes got dim as they touched and saw the 
delicate, flowery bits left from baby’s gowns. 

Lizzie was full of sympathy, and came hopping 
over on her crutches with her only treasure, a black 
rabbit, to console her friend. But of all the comfort 


PATTY’S PATCHWORK. 


209 


given, Mother Bunch’s share was the greatest and 
best; for that very first sad day, as Patty wandered 
about the house disconsolately, puss came hurrying to 
meet her, and in her dumb way begged her mistress 
to follow and see the fine surprise prepared for her. 
Four plump kits as white as snow, with four gray 
tails all wagging in a row, as they laid on their 
proud mamma’s downy breast, while she purred over 
them with her yellow eyes full of supreme content. 

It was in the barn, and Patty lay for an hour with 
her head close to Mother Bunch, and her hands 
softly touching the charming little Bunches, who 
squeaked and tumbled and sprawled about with 
their dim eyes blinking, their tiny pink paws fumb¬ 
ling, and their dear gray tails waggling in the sweet¬ 
est way. Such a comfort as they were to Patty no 
words could tell, and nothing will ever convince me 
that Mrs. Bunch did not know all about baby, and 
so lay herself out to cheer up her little mistress like 
a motherly, loving old puss, as she was. 

As Patty lay on the rug that evening while Aunt 
Pen sung softly in the twilight, a small, white figure 

14 


210 


AUNT JO'S SCRAP-BAG. 


came pattering over the straw carpet, and dropped 
a soft, warm ball down by Patty’s cheek, saying, as 
plainly as a loud, confiding purr could say it, — 

“ There, my dear, this is a lonely time for you, I 
know, so I’ve brought my best and prettiest darling 
to comfort you; ” and with that Mother Bunch sat 
down and washed her face, while Patty cuddled lit¬ 
tle Snowdrop, and forgot to cry about baby. 

Soon after this came a great happiness to Patty 
in the shape of a letter from mamma, saying she 
must have her little girl back a week earlier than 
they had planned. 

“ Pm sorry to leave you, aunty, but it is so nice 
to be wanted, and Pm all mamma has now, you 
know, so I must hurry and finish my work to sur¬ 
prise her with. How shall we finish it off? There 
ought to be something regularly splendid to go all 
round,” said Patty, in a great bustle, as she laid out 
her pieces, and found that only a few more were 
needed to complete the “moral bed-quilt.” 

“I must try and find something. We will put 
this white star, with the blue round it, in the middle, 


PATTY’S PATCHWORK. 


211 


foi it is the neatest and prettiest piece, in spite of 
the stains. I will sew in this part, and you may 
finish putting the long strips together,” said Aunt 
Pen, rummaging her bags and bundles for something 
fine to end off with. 

I know! I ve got something! ” and away hur¬ 
ried Lizzie, who was there, and much interested in 
the work. 

She came hopping back again, presently, with a 
loll in her hand, which she proudly spread out, 
saying, — 

“ There! mother gave me that ever so long ago, 
but I never had any quilt to use it for, and now it’s 
just what you want. You can’t buy such chintz 
now-a-days, and I’m 50 glad I had it for you.” 

“ It’s regularly splendid! ” cried Patty, in a rap¬ 
ture ; and so it was, for the pink and white was all 
covered with animals, and the blue was full of birds 
and butterflies and bees flying about as naturally as 
possible. Really lovely were the little figures and 
the clear, soft colors, and Aunt Pen clapped her 
hands, while Patty hugged her friend, and declared 
that the quilt was perfect now. 


212 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP-BAG. 


Mrs. Brown begged to be allowed to quilt it when 
the patches were all nicely put together, and Patty 
was glad to have her, for that part of the work was 
beyond her skill. It did not come home till the 
morning Patty left, and Aunt Pen packed it up 
without ever unrolling it. 

“We will look at it together when we show it to 
mamma,” she said; and Patty was in such a hurry 
to be off that she made no objection. 

A pleasant journey, a great deal of hugging and 
kissing, some tears and tender laments for baby, 
and then it was time to show the quilt, which 
mamma said was just what she wanted to throw 
over her feet as she lay on the sofa. 

If there were any fairies, Patty would have been 
sure they had done something to her bed-cover, for 
when she proudly unrolled it, what do you think 
she saw? 

Right in the middle of the w T hite star, which was 
the centre-piece, delicately drawn with indelible 
ink, was a smiling little cherub, all head and wings, 
and under it these lines,— 


PATTY’S PATCHWORK. 


213 


“ While sister dear lies asleep, 

Baby careful watch will keep.” 

Then in each of the four gay squares that were at 
tne corners of the strip that framed the star, was a 
white bit bearing other pictures and couplets that 
both pleased and abashed Patty as she saw and read 
them. 

In one was seen a remarkably fine bun, with the 
lines, — 

“ Who stole the hot bun 
And got burnt well ? 

Go ask the lilac bush, 

Guess it can tell.” 

In the next was a plump, tailless bird, who seemed 
to be saying mournfully, — 

“ My little tail, my little tail! 

This bitter loss I still bewail; 

But rather ne’er have tail again 
Than Patty should deceive Aunt Pen.” 


The third was less embarrassing, for it was a pretty 
bunch of flowers so daintily drawn one could almost 


214 


AUNT JO'S SCRAP-BAG . 


think they smelt them, and these lines were un¬ 
derneath : — 

“ Every flower to others given, 

Blossoms fair and sweet in heaven.” 

The fourth was a picture of a curly-haired child 
sewing, with some very large tears rolling down her 
cheeks and tumbling off her lap like marbles, while 
some tiny sprites were catching and flying away 
with them as if they were very precious: — 

“ Every tender drop that fell, 

Loving spirits caught and kept; 

And Patty’s sorrow lighter grew 
For the gentle tears she wept.” 

“ Oh, aunty! what does it all mean ? ” cried Patty, 
who had looked both pleased and ashamed as she 
glanced from one picture to the other. 

“It means, dear, that the goods and bads got into 
the bed-quilt in spite of you, and there they are to 
tell their own story. The bun and the lost tail, the 
posy you took to poor Lizzie, and the trouble you 


PATTY’S PATCHWORK. 


215 


bore so sweetly. It is just so with our lives, though 
we don’t see it quite as clearly as this. Invisible hands 
paint our faults and virtues, and by and by we have 
to see them, so we must be careful that they are 
good and lovely, and we are not ashamed to let 
the eyes that love us best read there the history of 
our lives.” 

As Aunt Pen spoke, and Patty listened with a 
thoughtful face, mamma softly drew the pictured 
coverlet over her, and whispered, as she held her lit¬ 
tle daughter close, — 

“ My Patty will remember this; and if all her 
years tell as good a story as this month, I shall not 
fear to read the record, and she will be in truth my 
little comforter ” 


University Press ; John Wilson & Son, Cambridge. 







Louisa 0L. ^Icott's ^rittngs. 


fHE LITTLE WOMEN SERIES 


LITTLE WOMEN; or Meg, Jo, Beth, 
and Amy. With Illustrations. i6mo. 
$1.50. 

LITTLE riEN. Life at Plumfield with 
Jo’s Boys. With Illustrations. i6mo. 
$1.50. 

JO’S BOYS AND HOW THEY 
TURNED OUT. A Sequel to “ Little 
Men.” With new Portrait of Author. 


AN OLD=FASHIONED GIRL. Wit 

Illustrations. i6mo. $1.50. 

EIGHT COUSINS; or, The Aunt-Hill. 
Illustrated. i6mo. $1.50. 

ROSE IN BLOOM. A Sequel to " Eight 
Cousins.” Illustrated. i6mo. $1.50. 

UNDER THE LILACS. With Illustra¬ 
tions. iomo. $1.50. 

JACK AND JILL. A Village Story. 
Illustrated. i6mo. $1.50. 


i6mo. $1.50. 

The above eight volumes, uniformly bound in cloth, gilt, in box, $12.00. 


THE SPINNING=WHEEL SERIES. 


SPINNING-WHEEL STORIES. With 
twelve initial Illustrations. i6mo. $1.25. 

SILVER PITCHERS: and Independ¬ 
ence. i6mo. $1.25. 


PROVERB STORIES. i6mo. $1.25. 

A GARLAND FOR GIRLS. With 
Illustrations by JESSIE McDermott. 
i6mo. $1.25. 


The above four volumes, uniformly bound in cloth, gilt, in box, $5.00. 


AUNT JO’S SCRAP BAG. 


MY BOYS. Illustrated. i6mo. $1.00. 

SHAWL-STRAPS. Illustrated. i6mo. 
$1.00. 

CUPID AND CHOW-CHOW. Illus¬ 
trated. i6mo. $1.00. 


MY GIRLS. Illustrated. i6mo. $1.00. 
JIMMY’S CRUISE IN THE PINA¬ 
FORE, ETC. Illustrated. i6mo. $1.00. 

AN OLD=FASHIONED THANKS¬ 
GIVING. Illustrated. i6mo. $1.00. 


The above six volumes, uniformly bound in cloth, gilt, in box, $6.00. 


LULU’S LIBRARY. 

Three volumes. Each, $1.00. The set uniformly bound in cloth, gilt, in box, $3.00. 

NOVELS, ETC. Uniform with “ Little Women Series 


HOSPITAL SKETCHES, and Camp 
and Fireside Stories. With Illustra¬ 
tions. i6mo. $1.50. 

WORK : A Story of Experience. Illus¬ 
trated by Sol Eytinge. i6mo. $1.50. 


MOODS. A Novel. i6mo. $1.50. 

A MODERN MEPHISTOPHELES, 
AND A WHISPER IN THE DARK. 

i6mo. $1.50. 


The above four volumes, uniformly bound in cloth, gilt, in box, $6.00. 


COMIC TRAGEDIES. Written by “Jo” 
and “Meg,” and acted by the “Little 
Women,” with a Foreword by “Meg.” 
Portraits, etc. i6mo. $1.50. 


LIFE OF MISS ALCOTT. LOUISA 
May Alcott : Her Life, Letters, and 
Journals. Edited by Ednah D. Cheney. 
Photogravure Portraits, etc. i6mo. 
$1.50. 


LITTLE WOMEN. Illustrated edition. 

Embellished with nearly two hundred Characteristic Illustrations from Original De¬ 
signs drawn expressly for this edition of tb's noted American Classic. Small quarto, 
cloth, gilt, $2.50. 


Etttle, JJroton, antr eontpang, IJutilisljero, 

254 Washington Street, Boston. 











BY TWO OF THE “LITTLE WOMEN.” 


x- 


COMIC TRAGEDIES. 


Written by “Jo” and “Meg,” and acted by the “Little 
Women.” With a Foreword by “Meg,” Portraits of 
“Jo” and “Meg,” and a view cf the house in which 
they lived. i6mo. Cloth. Uniform with Miss Alcott’s 
books. Price, $1.50. 

In the good old times, when “ Little Women ” worked and played 
together, the big garret was the scene of many dramatic revels. After a 
long day of teaching, sewing, and “helping mother,” the greatest delight 
of the girls was to transform themselves into queens, knights, and cavaliers 
of high degree, and ascend into a world of fancy and romance. Cinderella’s 
godmother waved her wand, and the dismal room became a fairyland. 
Flowers bloomed, forests arose, music sounded, and lovers exchanged their 
vows by moonlight. Nothing was too ambitious to attempt, — armor, 
gondolas, harps, towers, and palaces grew as if by magic, and wonderful 
scenes of valor and devotion were enacted before admiring audiences. 

Jo, of course, played the villains, ghosts, bandits, and disdainful 
queens; for her tragedy-loving soul delighted in the lurid parts, and no 
drama was perfect in her eyes without a touch of the demonic or super¬ 
natural. Meg loved the sentimental roles, the tender maiden with the airy 
robes and flowing locks, who made impossible sacrifices for ideal lovers, or 
the cavalier, singing soft serenades and performing lofty acts of gallantry 
and prowess. Amy was the fairy sprite, while Beth enacted the page or 
messenger when the scene required their aid. 

From the little stage library, still extant, the following plays have 
been selected as fair examples of the work of these children of sixteen and 
seventeen. With some slight changes and omissions, they remain as 
written more than forty years ago by Meg and Jo, so dear to the hearts of 
many other “ Little Women.” 


For sale by all booksellers , and 7 nailed, post-paid , on 
receipt of price by the publishers, 

\ • 

LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY, 

BOSTON, * 

























































